


Pressure (part one)

by fabricdragon



Series: Smooth Criminal [10]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Sherlock, Autistic Sherlock, BAMF John Watson, BDSM, Books, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Conditioning, Consensual Sex, Controlling Behavior, Dissociation, F/M, John Bashing, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical Trauma, Mildly Dubious Consent, Moriarty - Freeform, Multi, Mycroft's Meddling, Narcissism, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD John, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Payback, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sadly, Sherlock Holmes on the Asexuality Spectrum, Threesome - M/M/M, Topping from the Bottom, really bad relationships, to some extent, yes thats a warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-10-06 03:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 36,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10324418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Moriarty had warned Mycroft about what would happen if he  moved against Bond (or Q).  He tried anyway.  Moriarty responds.This picks up chronologically directly after "We Could Be Heroes".WARNING:  some very  not nice stuff happens in this fic. i don't get into graphic detail, but its there.  I will try to TW chapters that get really bad, but do mind the tags.





	1. Welcome Home

_I have a daughter. She’s tiny, and loud, and obviously perfect. I have a daughter._ Part of his brain just kept coming up and marveling at that. He’d always thought that new parents were sort of daft, but it was obviously something babies just DID to you–that, and the sleep deprivation definitely didn’t help.

Sherlock had sent them a congratulations note, along with a blunt comment that he didn’t like babies but he would try to stop by once everything settled.

_Settled. What a peculiar word._

Jim Moriarty was back, and he’d done something to Sherlock that didn’t make any sense, because, as far as John could tell, he’d taken him on a spa day or something, but Sherlock wouldn’t even leave the house for a week.

_And since then? Nothing._

_Weeks and weeks and weeks–and a baby! and then baby’s first Christmas–of nothing: no strange murders, no terrorism, no one trying to kidnap him. Apparently, they really were passing around this ridiculous story that Moriarty had been a deep cover agent working for Mycroft._

_Figures that Mycroft would go along with it. Arsehole._

Except, even in his sleep deprived state–and even not Sherlock–it seemed really… off. _Sherlock was FURIOUS at his brother, and it obviously had something to do with Moriarty, and with him being held hostage._

John just didn’t understand.

_Sherlock got… strange, when you tried to ask about it. It really… It really almost seemed like he’d been raped. Except Sherlock had been emphatic that he hadn’t been, and no one was willing to press charges, not even for kidnapping._

_There was just something wrong about it all._

_But not having enough sleep, and suddenly finding out that everything was the wrong size, and then dealing with strange allergies, which turned out to be the detergent they were using, of all things._ John just sort of figured that it would all be figured out at some point.

Besides, he had a daughter and that was kind of using up his brain at the moment–which is probably why he didn’t notice when Moriarty walked into the clinic through the back door, just after he got in for the day.

“Hello, Johnny,” Moriarty said pleasantly.

“GAH!” John reached for his gun–because yes, he was still carrying it–and pointed it dead between his eyes.

“Tsk, manners,” Moriarty said, shaking his head. “You’re terribly jumpy–have you considered a vacation?”

“Get out.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll shoot you, you giggling lunatic!”

Moriarty smiled at him the way you’d smile at a little kid who was being adorably fierce. “Awww, Johnny, that’s cute.”

“CUTE?!”

“If anything happens to me, all sorts of bad things happen to other people, really. You wouldn’t want that, right?”

John stared at the amused, and entirely unconcerned, expression on Moriarty’s face, and thought about everyone else. He lowered the gun.

“There’s a good boy. Never let anyone tell you that you don’t have any brains, Johnny.”

“What do you want?” All the energy had just gone out of him.

“It’s your turn.”

“My… turn?”

“If I pick up Sherlock again, he’ll likely shatter to pieces,” Moriarty smiled at him. “I rather thought you’d want to take your turn at being a hostage or something.”

John thought back to the state Sherlock had been in, and the casual way Moriarty said “shatter to pieces” and wondered if there was any way to get an alarm to anyone, or any point. “Well, I knew you weren’t on the good side.”

He giggled, “Who is? But, in any event, I could have been, but my darling Iceman decided not to believe the threat, I suppose. I really should pick up Sherlock–I did say that if Mycroft got out of line I would break him–but, you know…” Moriarty walked over and slid his arm through John’s arm, plucking the gun right out of his hand and pulling him toward the back door. “Everyone really deserves a second chance, don’t you think?”

*

John was taken, without blindfolds or tranq darts, to a house in the suburbs. Moriarty spent most of the ride on the phone talking about all sorts of things; John tried desperately to remember some of it.  They got out at the house, and Moriarty walked him in as though this was a perfectly normal visit, not some psychopathic lunatic kidnapping him.

“Here we are, Johnny, home sweet home!” Moriarty’s pet assassin, Moran, was looking at John as though he had a migraine. _Good, I hope the bastard’s head explodes_. There were a number of people going about as though this was some kind of office.

“Sebie? Be a dear and make sure the Captain gets settled?”

“Yes, Sir.”

John turned his head then. Any soldier developed fine-tuned hearing for the varieties of “Sir”. That specific variety was fairly clearly translated as “What did I do to get THIS shit job.”

“Uh, I’m not‑“

“Just strip, Captain.”

“What?”

“Strip,” Moran said with a frown. “The other options are having you peeled out of your clothes forcibly.”

John looked around at a few other people trying NOT to look at him, and three guards looking nowhere else.

“Right.” He started peeling off layers. He kept looking hopeful at Moran, but the man just kept looking sour at him until he was nude.

“PLEASE tell me I don’t have to search you?” Moran said tiredly.

“I would rather you didn’t.” John was standing with nothing covering his dignity in the middle of what looked for the entire world like a suburban sitting room. A woman in a maid’s costume–no, a uniform–came over, picked up his clothing and shoes, and walked off.

“Could… Could someone explain?” John shot a sort of hopeful look at Moran. The man was evil, but he seemed SANE at least.

“I doubt it, Doctor,” Moran said tiredly. “He’s gotten one of his IDEAS again.”

“Ideas?”

Moran nodded grimly.

He had the sudden eerie impression of himself, trying to chase after Sherlock with one of HIS “ideas”.

“Is… Is this anything like me trying to keep Sherlock from running out in the middle of traffic or something because he wanted a better look at something? Or him deciding that keeping eyeballs in the ‘fridge is a PERFECTLY NORMAL IDEA?” John hadn’t meant to shriek that last bit, but he never had gotten over the shock of it.

Moran looked a bit startled–John assumed from the shrieking–but then he just nodded, “Yes. Yes, I think it might be.”

“Oh, GOD…” He sank into a chair and then leapt up, because some chairs were just NOT comfortable without pants.

“Uh… Is there…” He wanted to gesture but his hands were the only privacy he had right now. “Am I getting any clothes?”

“I have no idea.” Moran sounded… suspiciously… familiar. John was fairly certain people around Sherlock sounded like that when you were trying to explain him to new people. It was somewhat eerie.

“Is there someplace for me to sit down that doesn’t… err… prickle?”

Moran blinked at him and looked at the chair; he raised an eyebrow. “Ah.” He told one of the people sitting at the table in the next room–it looked like the dining room but the table was covered in papers, and there was some college aged kid on a laptop–to bring a placemat. The kid actually looked up for the first time and stared at John.

“What?!”

“Don’t ask,” Moran said flatly. “Just bring a table cloth or a placemat, will you?”

The fellow came over somewhat dazedly with a placemat. It got put down on the chair and Moran waved at it. “Sit down.”

John perched on the edge of the chair, trying not to touch anything but the placemat. He was rather desperately trying to become invisible, but so far no luck.

Moran took up a relaxed posture leaning against the wall. The guards were looking who knew which way behind dark glasses; they could have been asleep for all John knew. People in business casual were working in the dining room, and occasionally walking through the sitting room on the way to someplace else. Every now and then a maid wandered through, once with a basket of laundry. John had never before had wistful thoughts about laundry. _First time for everything, I suppose_.

“Umm…” As soon as John spoke Moran looked at him; he’d otherwise been looking off into space a bit. “I’m… just supposed to… sit here?”

“I haven’t been told anything else to DO with you.” Moran quirked a faint smile, “He didn’t say to put you in the ‘fridge though.”

It took John a moment to realize the fellow might be making a joke about the eyeballs and the ‘fridge, but he COULD be making a reference to people being found chopped up by their loved ones in the ‘fridge… John was still trying to puzzle that out when Moriarty came walking back in.

“Johnny! There you are.”

“As opposed to?” he asked sort of hesitantly. _Seriously, where else could I GO?_

“Come along then, I have your room ready,” he said cheerfully. He walked off, and Moran just looked at him with a look that clearly said “Walk or I’ll carry you,” so John got up and walked after him, trying to keep his hands in front of him without looking like he was clutching his balls. He didn’t spend a lot of time barefoot. He managed to stub his toes on the stairs, fortunately carpeted, and was rapidly revising his ability to get anywhere downward when he was shown into a rather ordinary looking bedroom. John stood blinking a bit. Honestly, he’d expected a cell, or worse; this looked like a guest bedroom.

“So, this is YOUR room: I didn’t want to make too many changes; you can pick out your own bedspread color later.”

“WHAT is going on?” John finally spluttered.

Moriarty looked at him with a bright, cheerful, friendly, sunny smile. “Why, you’re moving in, of course.”

“I’m WHAT?”

Moran got a pained expression, but didn’t say anything.

“You’re moving in,” Moriarty said again, like it made sense. “You have your own bath,” he pointed to a door, “and I’m still ordering your books and things. I do hope you understand that I didn’t have a lot of time to make preparations.”

John took a deep breath and forced himself to think. _If this was Sherlock acting like a lunatic, what would I do?_ “I really must be getting home‑“

“You are home.”

“My… other… home.”

“No… If you had another home, I would probably have had to blow it up,” Moriarty said, smiling, and there was a flash of the dangerous edge there. “So… you don’t have any other home, right?”

John revised his estimates of his survival down several percentages. “Uh… no?”

“Good! Anyway, I have things to be about, but I’ll send someone to get you for dinner. Come along Sebie!”

Moriarty walked out. Sebastian shot him a pained look, one that he might have seen in a mirror years ago, and walked out. The door closed and locked with a rather secure sounding click.

John sat down on the–fortunately non-prickly–bed and looked around: bars on the window, locked door. He got up and opened the closet: empty. He went over to the bathroom: washcloths, a hand towel, not even a bath towel–although there appeared to be the basic amenities like soap and a toothbrush. He went back to the bed and sat down.

_What the hell?_


	2. Friction

Mycroft had made it home after Jim had left his office, only to collapse. “Welcome back” echoed in his head. _He didn’t… he hadn’t… had he?_

He made himself a light meal, and mechanically checked his messages. Another member of Parliament being blackmailed, another demand for information. He went through the motions, but it didn’t matter.

He settled back and vanished into the real world.

~

Mycroft looked around, sighing. It was getting chaotic again. The file drawers had been pulled out and there were files escaping. Jim, the current Jim, sitting on his desk handed him a file labeled, “deceased”, and laughed.

“Get off my desk, Jim.” He ordered his thoughts and Jim vanished.

He looked at himself sitting behind the desk, the orderly Mycroft, the untouchable Mycroft. That Mycroft shook his head and sighed at him, “You had to go and do that? Not only has it caused all sorts of political problems, but now Jim is going to strike back at Sherlock, you know he will.”

“I have my best men on Sherlock’s flat. Jim may be able to kill him, but he won’t be able to get to him.”

He heard laughter and turned. He grabbed at the desk for support; he hadn’t seen HIM in years.

Younger, darker Mycroft was lying on the couch, playing with Mycroft’s umbrella blade. He had blood on his lip. “You finally let me slip out, old man.”

“A mistake. You will be gone soon.”

“No. No, I won’t. Not this time.” He smiled and held up the blade. “NIIIiice. Why don’t you use it more, old man? You know you love it.”

“Love? Love is a ridiculous invention.” Mycroft ordered his mind and put the young Mycroft back into a dusty file, and closed the drawer.

His voice laughed anyway, echoing eerily around the room. “I’m not so easy to get rid of anymore: Jim broke the lock, didn’t he? I always did love playing with him…”

Mycroft concentrated: the lights came on; the papers went back in their place. He started sorting files into their proper order. It would just take time, and discipline.

~

He got into the office early and started dealing with the political fallout. It was messy and painful, but it would just take time to correct. He wouldn’t let anyone force him out, for all that the pressure was getting intense.

At nine AM he got a priority message to call the guards on Sherlock’s flat.

“Mycroft.”

“A package was delivered, Sir; we checked it was harmless, and we let it through, but…”

Mycroft closed his eyes. _Goldfish. I am surrounded by goldfish._ “Well, obviously it wasn’t harmless or you wouldn’t be calling. What happened?”

“He had some kind of panic attack, Sir. He, um... shot at one of the men. He’s locked himself in his flat and won’t answer.”

Mycroft opened his eyes. The mind palace Jim was sitting on his desk, snickering. He ignored him and went to Sherlock’s flat. The guards had set up a checkpoint just outside.

“Where is the package?”

“Here, Sir. We sent samples to the drug lab, but I don’t think that’s the issue.”

A box, from one of the well-known bath shops, was lying open: there was a large jar labeled “Pink Peony Sugar Scrub”. It had been opened.

“It was sealed when it arrived, Sir–we opened it for samples, after.”

Mycroft opened the jar and sniffed: a scent that might have been “overdone lady’s powder and bubblegum,” but didn’t seem very much like peony, assaulted his nose. “Ugh!” he jerked his head back. He touched a finger into it cautiously. A gritty, oily feeling contaminated his finger. He hurriedly wiped it off on a paper towel; his hand felt slick, and he wanted a sink.

“What is that… that?”

“Sugar scrub, Sir. Lots of people use it, to get rid of callouses and moisturize the skin,” a female officer said hesitantly. “You can make up your own at home.”

He wiped off his finger again, brought it to his nose and sniffed. The scent lingered faintly on his finger, and his hand felt oddly slick. He thought back to the condition Sherlock had been in when he’d come to the hotel… _If he’d had this stuff all over him… My God, what a horror!_ Even wiping it off didn’t seem to help.

Mycroft swallowed and nodded, “Take it to the lab, but I don’t think you’ll find anything. You said he shot someone?”

“Shot AT, Sir: he didn’t hit me,” one of the guards said. He threw the jar and slammed into a wall and looked panicked; I went over to help, and he drew a gun and fired; I ducked, but I don’t– I don’t think he was seeing ME, you know? His aim was sort of ‘it moved’.”

Mycroft looked at the fellow: _he was concerned, understanding, sympathetic._ Mycroft nodded, “Bad traumatic flashbacks, thank you for understanding. I’ll go in and talk him down.”

Mycroft had the landlady let him in. The room had toppled furniture…

_Sherlock had thrown the jar, recoiled into the wall, and, after shooting at the man, had stayed there shaking for a while; then he’d run to the bathroom, probably to throw up… no, throw up and shower. He’ll be someplace away from the smell._

Mycroft headed into the bedroom. Sherlock was huddled in a corner of the room, having dragged all the blankets over: all you could see of him was one hand and a nose.

“It’s just me,” Mycroft said, sitting down on the bed.

“I know,” Sherlock gasped between words. “What did you do?”

“I was foolish.”

“What did you DO?”

“I had an opportunity to get rid of Moriarty–”

“Jim, he’s Jim to you; he’s Moriarty to me, but he’s Jim to you.”

“He used to be.”

“He still is. What did you DO?”

“Tried to have him killed.”

“He wouldn’t do this.”

“Bond was with him. So was that computer fellow.”

Sherlock poked his head suspiciously out of the covers. Mycroft could see the damage like cracks in a vase. “How?”

“Bond had some trouble on a mission–not my fault, really–and apparently somehow Jim and Q got together and went off after him.”

“So you…?”

“It should have worked. I still don’t know how they got back.”

Sherlock shook violently. “Why couldn’t you leave him alone?” he whispered. “You know what he said.”

“You wouldn’t be safe until he was dead, Sherlock.”

“Don’t you DARE pretend this was for me, Mycroft: I’m not THAT stupid.”

Mycroft winced.

“I never once guessed, you know?” Sherlock shuddered again. “That you, and HIM… How? Why?!”

“It was a long time ago, Sherlock. I… I was just so thrilled to find someone I could talk to, and he had so much potential…” Mycroft hadn’t meant to say that much, it had just tumbled out.

“Well, you bloody well need to fix it. That was a warning.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I didn’t know what he’d done, so I didn’t know not to let it through.” He shuddered.

“Horrible, horrible…” Sherlock collapsed, whining back into the covers. Mycroft could almost feel hands rubbing slick grit all over him; he shuddered. It was bad enough for him, but Sherlock? It must have been horrific.

“Where’s your drug stash, Sherlock?”

“NO! You can’t–”

“I’m not taking it Sherlock: I think you need a dose; it will help you get over it.”

Sherlock nodded, shakily, and told him. _Oh, I should have realized._ Mycroft got the needle and the vial and drew up a careful amount. He didn’t watch as Sherlock gave himself the shot.

“Moriarty gave me a hypnotic, after I got home.”

“What?!” Mycroft stared at the bundle of blankets that was slowly slumping down. “He’s a brilliant chemist, it could have been anything!”

“I got out of the shower, and he’d left me a syringe. It was a custom hypnotic blend… he said it was to help me… lock the memories away… it worked…”

“Did he say why?”

Sherlock’s voice was slow, “Dancing in the shadows… Valuable… Didn’t want… me to break…”

Mycroft pulled the insensate Sherlock out of his bundle of blankets and hauled him onto the bed. He tucked the blankets around him and cleaned up the syringe.

Out of the corner of his eye, a much younger Mycroft, with blood on his lips, was kissing Jim in the dark. He took a deep breath and deleted them, and sat down to wait for his brother to wake up.

Mycroft’s priority alert went off before Sherlock woke up.

“Mycroft,” he answered, although he already suspected what they would say.

“Dr. Watson is missing, Sir. Three of our men are dead.”

 _From the clinic, of course: it was the hardest to guard._ “How much of a struggle?”

“None, sir. Dr. Watson’s pistol was lying on the counter in one of the exam rooms, but nothing overturned, no blood. It hadn’t been fired.”

Mycroft could picture it. _The guards in the way being removed, neatly and quietly. If there hadn’t been a struggle, then he’d probably gone quietly under threat. Of course…_ Mycroft felt very, very old.

Younger Mycroft flickered into his mind, leaning up against a wall, smirking. “Old man.” Mycroft took a deep breath and nodded. “Begin searching. Go over the cameras, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Initiate ten minute checks on all other guard posts for this case.”

“Yes, sir.”

He was working from Sherlock’s living room when Sherlock staggered out a while later.

“Tea’s in here.”

Sherlock turned and staggered into the sofa and collapsed. He held a hand out; Mycroft put his tea into it.

Sherlock turned huge dark eyes, still dilated, to him, “You’re still here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I thought you were in my head.”

“No, I’m the real one.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. He sipped his tea. Mycroft waited until he was done.

“Moriarty got Watson,” he said gently.

Sherlock stared at him. “WHY?” Mycroft heard his poor baby brother asking the obvious again.

“Because he couldn’t get you, Sherlock.”

“He’ll kill him.”

“No. No, he won’t, not yet. He’s trying to lure you out where he can get you, Sherlock.” Mycroft said gently, “We’ll find him.”

Sherlock stared at him and his face hardened. “This is your fault.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You’d better get him back, Mycroft, or I will go after him.”

“Yes, I know. You know I can’t let you.”

“You know you can’t stop me.”

Mycroft sighed, “Let me find him first, Sherlock.”

“IS there any way to call him off? Can’t you… apologize or something?”

“I can’t pay the price he’d want, Sherlock.”

“What would he want?! Another pardon? Money? Security codes?”

“He already has that.”

“Then what?! What price does he want?!” _Sherlock was so very, very stupid… then again right now he was terrified and still drugged._

“He wants me.”


	3. Madmen and Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW APPLY : non con (not graphic) you can and should skip this chapter if you are sensitive to Non con

John had explored the room rather thoroughly, several times, and finally ended up sitting back on the bed trying to figure out what was going on. He wasn’t having much luck. Time crawled by. Every now and then he would get up, wander over to look out the barred window–it faced onto a private back yard–try the door and so on, but eventually he just ended up back at the bed because there wasn’t anything else to sit on. He about jumped out of his skin when the door clicked a few times and opened.

“Dinner time!” Moriarty sang out cheerfully.

John waited for a guard or something to bring in a tray. Moriarty looked at him expectantly…

“Well?” Moriarty said.

“Well, what?”

“Are you not hungry? It’s dinner time!” He stepped slightly to the side, making it clear that John was expected to come OUT for dinner.

Old adages about keeping up your strength and eating flew through his mind. He hadn’t had lunch and he should try to get food. “Of course, right. Dinner… Don’t people usually have clothes for that?”

Moriarty laughed, “Oh, you are such a silly fellow. Come on.”

John, very reluctantly, was taken back to the sitting area, and then through to the dining room–now cleared of papers. There were three other people at the table, all of whom were wearing clothes. Moriarty patted a chair, “Here you go.”

He got into the chair as fast as he could, being intensely grateful for tablecloths and napkins. The other three people were studiously ignoring him. “Now, Johnny, I don’t really know your taste in wines, so I do hope you’ll let me know if there’s anything you like or don’t like.”

He was served a full, formal dinner, with a wine choice for each course, by a team of servants who were obviously extremely good because they never even batted an eye. The other guests were less capable, but had apparently been told to ignore the fact that he was nude, and were doing their best.

John had the almost supernaturally painful experience of trying to have normal small talk over dinner, because whenever he got surly, or didn’t answer, Moriarty just flashed him that “I will have your friends blown up” look. When he acted like this was a perfectly normal dinner party, so did Moriarty. The food was good, but John really couldn’t appreciate it.

After dinner the other guests apparently went home, leaving him with Moriarty. “So, Johnny, what can I do to make this more comfortable?”

“How about–oh, I don’t know–clothes?!”

“You earn those.”

“Earn... clothes?”

Moriarty nodded at him like he was a bright child, “Yes, exactly.”

“And how do I… earn clothes?”

“By behaving, and being sociable, and doing your homework,” Moriarty said, EXACTLY as though he was ten.

“Homework?”

“Yes, I told you your books would be arriving. They aren’t here yet, I’m sorry.”

“WHY…” John was about to yell why can’t I go home, and thought about explosives _. Ok, Moriarty was playing by some weird kind of rules; he just needed to find out what they were_. He pulled himself together, “Why am I moving in? Why do I have to earn clothes?”

Moriarty looked at him and, for just a split second, John saw a bit of confusion and calculation before he said, “Why, Johnny… do you know… I do think I may have underestimated you.”

“You and everyone else,” he muttered.

Moriarty sat back thoughtfully. His face went more neutral, although it was still friendly; it wasn’t the manic look of just a moment ago. “I suppose it’s the fact that standing next to the Holmes brothers you look stupid by comparison.”

“I’m not stupid,” John said bitterly. “I’m not SHERLOCK, but I’m not stupid.”

“No. No, you’re not. Not really.” Moriarty sighed. “Well it’s very simple Johnny… Oh, eat your dessert, I saved it for you.”

A servant put down a couple of fresh, warm cookies– _they smelled wonderful_ –and a glass of milk.

“Anyway, where was I?”

“Explaining things to me, at a level that a ‘not stupid but not a Holmes’ could understand?” John flashed back to the last time he’d said something like that and winced.

“Tell me why you flinched.”

“Because I’m sitting naked in a room with a psychotic murderer?”

He just shook his head pleasantly, “Tell me why you flinched JUST THEN when you said that–it sounded like a quote.”

John gave in to the smell of fresh baked cookies and took a bite: he involuntarily moaned. _These were heaven._

Moriarty smiled, “They are good, aren’t they? They’re my favorite. Do go on.” Moriarty frowned, “But don’t talk with your mouth full, small bites.”

John just stared at him for a second, and finally took a sip of milk. “The last time I said that was in a hotel room with Sherlock and Mycroft when I went to pick him up after you’d taken him.”

“Ooooh….” He leaned forward intently, “Did they? Explain it?”

“No,” John admitted, “not really. Sherlock said you initially got interested in him because of Mycroft, and that you’d threatened to rape him, but you hadn’t.” John saw Moriarty’s eyes crinkle up; he looked like he was about to burst out in giggles. John took a few more bites of cookie and sips of milk and tried to get his temper under control. “He was screaming at Mycroft, they were… they were doing the talking but not saying anything thing they do… and then I took him home.” The cookies hadn’t changed but they tasted like cardboard right now as he thought about it.

“The ‘talking but not saying anything thing’… Do you know, Johnny Boy…” Moriarty had gotten much quieter; his voice got more even‑and more Irish‑he sounded almost normal. “You are a remarkably good observer, for… for someone who isn’t a Holmes.”

“Sherlock hasn’t spoken to his brother since–except to scream at him the one time he tried to phone. He wouldn’t leave the house for a week. After that he seemed… ok.”

“I left him enough hypnotics to lock the memories away,” Moriarty said quietly.

“What?!” John snapped his head up hard enough to make the room spin.

“I took him apart, Johnny. It was a message to Mycroft, that if he tried to bother James, I’d finish the job.”

John just stared at him. His hands lay like lead weights in his lap.

“But I took him a bit closer to shattering–just a bit–than I’d thought… so I left him a syringe of hypnotics and a nice mnemonic to lock the memories away.” He smiled, “I sent him a trigger today, after I picked you up. He won’t be functional until tomorrow, at least.”

“Why?!” John had trouble forcing the word out; he felt heavy. Moriarty nodded behind him and hands steadied him; some people picked him up and put him in a wheelchair. He tried to move and he couldn’t.

“I put the paralytic in the milk,” Moriarty said answering his question, even though he hadn’t asked.

They wheeled him back to his room, laid him out on the bed, and then they left.

Moriarty sat down on the bed next to him and ran a hand down his chest. He couldn’t move. “I did this to Sherlock… paralyzed him. Of course, I used injected drugs–much more precise. In his case, he knows exactly what I did to him, except he made himself forget. In your case? In your case, you won’t remember–not consciously, anyway.”

*

John woke up. _I was back in the bedroom? How had I gotten here?_ He tried to remember… Bits and pieces of the dinner started coming back. He sat up, slowly. His mouth felt like a small animal had died in it. _Drugged,_ he realized. _I was drugged._ A small table that hadn’t been there before was next to the bed, with a speaker and a plastic tumbler of water on it. He sipped the water and staggered to the bathroom, rinsing his mouth out and drinking until his tongue felt normal.

He had apparently scratched himself in his sleep or something, he had a few small welts, and he must have slept wrong because he ached everywhere.

He came out and stared. A desk had also appeared in the room–he hadn’t noticed it–and there was a book on it, and a note, and some office supplies. He went over. The book was softcover, titled: The Invisible Orientation: An Introduction to Asexuality. There was a note on the desk:

_Johnny,_

_You slept through breakfast, so I left you some fruit and some meal bars in the desk drawer. I’ll call you before dinner so you have time to take a shower._

_You get one item of clothing for turning in a top quality three page book report. No increasing the spacing and things; that may fly in grade school but you’re better than that. Remember, good behavior earns points, too._

_Jim_

John looked in the drawers and, sure enough, in one of them he found meal bars and some apples. He ate them rather mechanically, trying to pull his memories back.

He’d talked to Moriarty about Mycroft and Sherlock. He’d started having symptoms of being drugged, now that he thought about it. He remembered being put in a wheelchair and brought back here. John gritted his teeth. Ok, different tactic… memory is stored oddly, that’s why going through a door sometimes makes you forget why you left the room…

John got up and went to the door of the room; he slowly walked in toward the bed… He paid attention, his heart rate was increasing, and he felt uneasy. Something was associated with the bed, probably being drugged.

He lay down; muscle memory said he’d been spread out, facing up. He’d woken up curled in a ball, trying to protect himself.

He lay down, facing up, hands at his side, staring up at the ceiling. He felt a phantom hand brush down his chest.

He remembered: Moriarty had drugged Sherlock, too–paralyzed him. He’d given him a hypnotic to help him forget… and sent him a trigger that day, to make him remember. He started panicking, fear over Sherlock and old flashbacks randomly trying to pull him down. He took several deep breaths and tried to remember what Sherlock had said about a mind palace. Look at it from outside, where it can’t hurt you.

Moriarty had said he took Sherlock apart. That had to be mentally: he’d physically looked wonderful. To… To keep Mycroft from hurting James?

John shuddered.

James, the name James Bond… anyone hurting James… that… that was associated with pain.

But why would Mycroft hurt him? Bond was MI6, he’d had Q, that computer fellow who reminded him of Sherlock a little, held prisoner by Moriarty. Why would Mycroft hurt him? John gave up on that and tried another path.

Moriarty had brought him back up here. He MUST have hurt him. John looked carefully at his body, checking places where you could hurt people without leaving too many marks. The obvious places didn’t really hurt, but he had small welts on his arm and his chest, and his muscles were sore as hell.

He went into the bathroom and tried to look at his back. More tiny scratches and welts, nothing obvious. There were a handful of very small bruises near his buttocks and hips. He looked at that for a long time.

He walked back into the bedroom, and lay down on the bed again. He slowly rolled over and lay face down. Immediately he started panicking. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, and his muscles started to cramp. He rolled back over and looked up at the ceiling. He started to relax again. The adrenaline had gotten him half hard. He remembered that the room was unquestionably bugged. He pulled the covers up over himself, and closed his eyes. He was more than half hard, and when he reached down and touched himself that felt… familiar. _A cessation of pain…_

John went still.

He wasn’t Sherlock, but he wasn’t stupid, and he WAS a doctor. He’d been given something to keep him from properly forming memories, probably BEFORE the paralytic, in one of the wines. He’d been brought back here and hurt, professionally; whatever it was it left an impression but not many marks. Some of that had happened when he was face up on the bed, more when he was face down. Then he’d been rolled back over, and….

John took a deep breath. _Ok, I’d been raped._

He didn’t feel any pain, though, not there. He moved a hand cautiously to his anus and touched. No reaction, nothing new at least, nothing sore, nothing wet. No memory, no new reaction. Ok, no one had penetrated him, but… he’d be willing to bet someone had given him a blow job.

 _Why? Power, probably. Because they could._ He couldn’t remember it, but his body did. Moriarty had hurt him, and there was very little he could do to stop him from doing it again. He curled back up on his side, the way he’d been when he woke up, and tried to ignore the memories and the tears in his eyes.


	4. Hello Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, i didn't forget Molly... neither did Jim.  
> Begins the afternoon that John was kidnapped and Sherlock got the trigger. continues after Sherlock is more or less functional again.

“Hello, Molly–did YOU miss me?”

Molly slowly turned around in the morgue to see Jim–HER Jim–from the IT department standing in the doorway with a box.

“Oh, God…” she could only whisper–because she had; she finally nodded.

“It’s true, you know: I am gay,” Jim said pleasantly as he walked over. She could see someone standing partially out of sight behind him. “Or… well, maybe bi? But, if so, only slightly.” He tilted his head at her, “Human sexuality is such a very complex topic, don’t you think? It’s partly chemical, of course, and nerves firing, but a lot of it is psychology, and that’s always a messy business.”

She should run, but a quick glance at the door told her that wasn’t going to help. She was just having so much trouble believing that JIM would hurt her.

“Are… Are you really Moriarty? I didn’t believe it.”

Jim giggled. “Define ‘really’.”

“You were always so sweet…”

Jim reached out and touched her face. “No, not always Molly, but you seem to have a gift for taming psychopaths and high functioning sociopaths. It must be in your blood.”

He opened the box, revealing a complete DVD collection of Glee and blood drawing equipment.

“So I’m afraid I need some.” He smiled pleasantly.

He let her do her own blood draw.

“Don’t tell Mycroft, Molly–you really wouldn’t like it. Enjoy the DVDs,” he said cheerfully, and walked out.

A few seconds later he poked his head back in. “Oh, and Molly?” He didn’t even smile as she jumped up from the chair she’d sagged into. “Sherlock isn’t doing so well, so maybe don’t stress him about this?”

And he was gone.

She didn’t call Sherlock until the next day. She tried to not call at all, but she had to talk to someone.

“Hello.” Sherlock’s voice sounded flat, and dull.

“Sherlock? It’s Molly… What happened, are you alright?”

“Molly…” He breathed out slowly, “Are YOU alright? Jim’s back.”

She didn’t want to tell him anything–he sounded so very ill, and, after all, she was alright. “I’m fine, just… you don’t sound fine.”

“I’m more than a bit not good,” Sherlock admitted. “After… after all the explosions… you know I wasn’t well.”

“Yes, you wouldn’t see me, and you didn’t leave your flat for a month.”

“A week, Molly: really, don’t exaggerate,” Sherlock huffed.

Molly laughed. _That had sounded better._

“Moriarty… sent me a trigger, for what he’d done, as a warning.”

“A warning? For what? Are we in danger?” She couldn’t imagine what Jim wanted with the blood, but she also had trouble imagining Jim being threatening. _They watched Glee together!_

“I hope not.” He paused, and Molly could hear him making little humming noises. “Molly, he kidnapped John.”

She sat down, slowly. “When?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“It… It’s hard to picture,” she said in a whisper. Jim had visited her yesterday afternoon.

“Molly?” Sherlock’s voice sharpened. “What’s going on?”

“Can you come here?”

“My brother has me under guard, actually,” Sherlock grumbled, “and probably the phone tapped.”

“Can I come there? Without running into Mycroft,” she added, especially with Jim’s warnings ringing in her ears.

“Probably not,” Sherlock admitted.

 _How could she get word to him, without Mycroft…_ “Would… Would you like me to send you Glee DVDs?” _Maybe they were a clue–they came from Jim, after all._

There was an incredulous silence on the other end of the line, followed by a perfectly normal sounding–if emotionally hurtful–snort, “Why would I want to clutter up my mind with THAT?”

_Damn it! How was I going to…_

“Stay there.” He hung up.

She did. She ordered in, caught up on paperwork, and generally paced, and when a patient had a drug-fueled meltdown in the ER and the security ended up having to step away to deal with it, she wasn’t surprised.

“Hello, Molly,” Sherlock’s voice came hesitantly from the doorway.

She breathed a sigh of relief, “Come in. I ordered extra food–I didn’t know when you would show up.”

He kept looking around warily as he came in. “He was here?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Did he threaten you? Or did he leave a clue for me?” He looked dark for a moment. “Or both?”

“I know you won’t believe me, but I’m not sure he did either.”

Sherlock looked intently at her, “Try to remember it as exactly as you can.”

“He asked if I missed him.” After a pause, she continued, “He said he really was gay, or maybe bi, and he went on about sexuality being chemicals and psychology?”

Sherlock nodded at her encouragingly.

“He opened the box–”

“What box?”

“He’d come in with a box,” she said, blinking a bit. “Anyway, he opened the box, and it had that boxed set of Glee,” she nodded at the still wrapped set on her desk,” and blood tubes and everything.” Sherlock’s eyes widened at that and she hurried on, “No, no, not a shot–like for taking blood? It had the usual tubes, just like the ones we use here: color-coded caps and all.” He nodded slowly and relaxed a little. “He said he needed some of my blood…” she trailed off because Sherlock’s hands were white where he was gripping the desk, for all that his face looked calm.

“Could he have given you a drug?”

She shook her head. “No. He let me fill the blood vials–three of them–myself, and then he left.”

“This was yesterday?”

She didn’t ask how he knew. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you call then?”

“He said if I told Mycroft I wouldn’t like it,” she admitted. “I was a bit… even though he didn’t sound threatening.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“He said you weren’t well, and I shouldn’t stress you,” she admitted.

Sherlock looked down. “I wasn’t… but it could help us figure out what he’s doing.”

“I… I thought it might be a clue, so I left the Glee set wrapped–was I right?”

“It was the right thing to do.” Sherlock nodded, and picked up the boxed set, turning it over in his hands slowly. He put it down. “Where is the box?”

She looked over at the top of the file cabinet. “It was empty, and I collect pretty boxes…”

“Which Jim would know,” he said, going over and picking up the heavy duty gift box. There was an insert for the bottom of the box–he carefully pried it up; there was a folded over note underneath.

Hands shaking, Sherlock opened it.

 

_Mycroft, this letter is for you. If your adorable baby brother is reading this he should stop now, but I don’t expect he will,_

_If anyone so much as interrupts Molly’s television watching schedule, I will be annoyed. In fact I will be annoyed enough that I will have to kidnap her and anyone standing too close to her–like Greg, perhaps._

_She helped your brother fake his death well enough to fool me for a bit: show some respect._

_With love, as always, Jim”_

 

It was the sign off, exactly like the other letter, the one at the hotel that made Sherlock back away shaking.

He bumped into someone after two steps, and spun–expecting Moriarty–only to find Molly looking up at him with worried eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“No,” he shook his head, deleting the smell of bath scrubs and the feel of silk against his skin. “I have to go.” He shoved the note back under the insert and looked at Molly firmly. “Listen to me, leave that box there. If you ever see Mycroft, and he so much as looks at you too hard, tell him the box is there. I’ll try to keep him away from you.”

“Can you explain?”

“No, but Mycroft has done some very foolish things, and people got hurt because of it. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. I’ll try to intercept him and keep him away from you.” Sherlock headed out the door

A moment later, he poked his head back around the door frame–Molly had a rather odd sense of déjà vu–“Oh, Molly? The DVDs are fine, you can go watch them if… if that’s the sort of thing you do.”

She sat back down and waited, but he didn’t come back. She put her head down on the desk and smiled at the DVDs, “If that’s the sort of thing I do… Honestly, Sherlock, I talk about the show all the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short post about why my updates have been erratic: https://fabricdragondesigns.tumblr.com/post/158830587380/for-those-of-you-wondering-why-i-havent-been


	5. Time Out of Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: PTSD, flashbacks, past torture, etc (not graphic)

John had dozed off, waking suddenly when the speaker next to the bed buzzed. “Dinner in thirty, Johnny boy, time to get showered,” Moriarty’s voice sang out of the speaker.

John’s heart rate skyrocketed, his eyes flew open and he clutched the sheets to himself in a blind panic. “NO!” he shouted hoarsely before he even realized.

“No? You don’t want dinner?”

John was breathing hard trying to pull himself down from a complete panic attack. The world was closing in; he curled up and tumbled off the bed. _He had to hide, they were coming for him._

“Johnny?”

The door opened a few moments later. _Soldiers came in and dragged him out from the crevice in the rocks he’d been hiding in._ He vaguely heard Moriarty– _The Interrogator?_ –saying something; they were trying to give him a shot. _Another round of interrogation, more abuse…_ He let his reflexes take over. He took one of them down fast and hard, the other one had his legs taken out by a sweeping kick. He heard shouting but he couldn’t understand it. He got hold of one of their guns and shot someone. He took off. He ran past more guards, but they were slow. He kicked one that tried to grab him and felt a bone crunch. _The door out of the barracks? Prison_? Wouldn’t open, he shot the lock until it did _. He felt a knife hit him in the back_ as he made it outside. He kept running but everything went sideways, and he fell.

*

He came to, restrained to his bed. _London, not..._ He had an IV in his arm. Moriarty was sitting next to him. Moran was standing near the door with a rifle in ready posture. He found it hard to care about any of it _. Mood leveler_ , his mind supplied helpfully. Moriarty coughed. John tracked back over at him: he had a bruise, a bad one but still recent, on one side of his face.

 _I must have hit him,_ John thought tiredly. _THAT’s gonna earn me some pain_.

“You know, I didn’t know your PTSD was that bad,” Jim said calmly.

“Being tortured and raped sort of brings it back, yeah,” he said; for some reason, Moran flinched.

Jim stared at him. “Really? How much do you REMEMBER?” Jim asked him incredulously.

“I don’t have to remember much,” John said tiredly. “You gave me a memory blocker. A paralytic, I think you said, in the milk. After that, it gets really scattered.”

“Then how do you know what happened?” Jim sounded honestly curious.

“Deduction? I don’t have many marks, lying face down gave me panic attacks, lying face up was better. I have a vague idea that someone went down on me, based on sensation.” John stared at the ceiling, and tried not to pull on the restraints.

He named a few drugs. “Probably one of those. Dunno what you did that hurt me and didn’t leave marks, but it must have been bad.”

“Electricity, mostly,” Jim said slowly, and then told him which drug, and the dose.

“You’re lucky I kept breathing when you combined that with the paralytic,” John said tiredly.

“You stopped once; we just kept you breathing until the drugs stabilized.”

“You did that to Sherlock?” John thought he was going to throw up.

“No. I did something entirely different to him.” Jim ran a hand down his chest _. Yeah, that was the phantom hand sensation_. John shuddered.

“You really are much, much more than I thought, Johnny boy. James was right: you’re far more my type than Sherlock.”

“Go. To. Hell.” John enunciated each word.

Jim looked amused, “I have a time share there; it’s nice.”

“So get on with it.”

“Well, given that you shot one of my men, and broke another fellow’s knee cap… not to mention the front door… I don’t think having you come down for dinner is a good idea. You were tranquilized, you’ve been moved, and this is a different building.”

John rolled his head and looked around the room. _Same furniture, same carpet, the window had curtains over it._ He stared up at the ceiling. _Yeah, that was different._ He took a deep, deep breath and held it in the back of his mouth. _Moisture._

“We’re underground? It’s damp.”

Moriarty inhaled sharply. He saw Moran shift near the door. “Oh, MY, Johnny… I do keep underestimating people. I suppose Sherlock couldn’t have put up with you unless you were fairly bright, I just hadn’t realized.” He trailed a finger down John’s face. “I take back all the nasty things I said about your value as bait.”

“So I’m bait again?”

“Yes, but you know… really, you are worth collecting in your own right: that was impressive.”

“Torturing me is bait? Then why keep me from remembering it? I thought you’d want me making a phone call or something.”

“Oh, no, Johnny, nothing that simple: I’m conditioning you. Depending on how long it takes Sherlock to figure it out, escape Mycroft’s protection, and find me? We could make a lot of progress.”

*

“Sir,” Sebastian finally couldn’t keep quiet any more. He’d waited until they were alone; as usual, Jim seemed to know what he was about before he said anything.

“Yes, I know. You’re right,” Jim said from behind the icepack on his face.

“And of course you’re sure you know what I was going to say.” Sebastian couldn’t help but smile because he usually did.

“He’s a lot more than I gave him credit for, really… and, yes, I’m sure the recent issue is too close to home for you.”

“That could be me, you know, if I’d found Sherlock and not you.”

Jim smiled at him, “Not really, Sebie. Your underlying tempers are quite different, but you’re both very loyal.”

“Sir, he didn’t do anything…”

“I know.” Jim was looking moody and distant; normally Sebastian would shut up and leave him to work it out but…

“Can’t you just… hold him? Not… whatever you’re doing?”

“No.”

Sebastian braced himself to try to argue. _Arguing a point could work–sometimes–when the boss wasn’t too set on something._

“I can change what I was aiming for, though,” Jim said softly. “It will do less damage.”

 _Well, that’s something…“_ I don’t know what you’re aiming for.”

“I know. I didn’t tell you. I rather thought you would have too much sympathy for the man, even before.”

Sebastian sighed, “So? What was before and what’s now?”

“I was going to see if I could re-work him into going after Mycroft.”

“Oh…” Sebastian thought about it. Mycroft Holmes was evil incarnate in his opinion. “That’s… not as bad as I thought.”

“Yes, and John dislikes him intensely anyway. It really wouldn’t take much.”

“Then why change your mind on that?” _Other than random whims._

“It’s more the HOW, Sebie,” Jim sighed. “I was going to work on redirecting his loyalty a bit more in my direction, upping the hostility to Mycroft to lethal levels, and of course conditioning him to be protective of Bond,” He looked up and smiled at Sebastian briefly, “No, not that James needs protecting, but when Mycroft said anything about hurting him it would hit the trigger.”

 _God knows it shouldn’t take much of a trigger to make any decent military man want to kill Mycroft._ Sebastian caught himself and had to admit that his opinion was somewhat biased. “Oh. And now?”

“I need to think a bit more. Maybe I can shift it to mostly avoiding harm to James, and upping the protective feelings toward Sherlock? That would do less damage, and might end up getting Mycroft at least strangled a bit, if not shot.”

“Not concerned about the Holmes boys, Sir… although… I did rather get the impression that you were fond of Sherlock.” _He’d gone from wanting to destroy him to leaving him in one piece after the hotel; “fond” seemed as good a word as any..._

“I am, a bit. Odd that, isn’t it? I suppose it really isn’t his fault that his brother is… well… Mycroft.”

“It… it would be better for the Captain if Sherlock was alright. After what happened when Sherlock ‘died’…” _I wouldn’t have survived._

Jim leaned back into Sebastian’s chest. “I know. I took it as evidence of Sherlock being more like his brother than I thought, abandoning his pet like that. Instead it turned out he’s just terrible at figuring out how ordinary people react. I’m glad I helped him, then, but… If I’d known Sherlock cared for him, really, I would have done it differently.”

Sebastian thought about Mary Watson, and the baby, and shuddered. “Yes, sir. I wish you had, too.”

“Well, it’s almost dinner for John, and then I have my appointment, so we’ll have to leave new instructions.”

“You’re still going?”

“When have I missed an appointment with her?”

“Well… it’s been a while–but John?”

“We’ll give instructions to the staff, and the new approach means I don’t have to be here for positive conditioning anyway. I’ll change the recording for tonight and we’ll be set.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has PTSD (canon) he also has psychosomatic limp, and hand tremors that DO NOT associate with his shoulder wound directly. why? well, in my opinion, a lot more happened to him than being "shot once in the shoulder".


	6. A Night at the Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Night at the Opera with a fellow Mathematician  
> (this will make more sense if you have read Walk Away- Jim's back story- but its not needed)

John hadn’t been allowed to leave the room after that. They left the collar on him, but took the rest of the restraints off. He’d been waiting for whatever punishment was going to happen for hitting Moriarty, but… he’d just been left there.  As Moriarty was walking out he said, “Food in the desk drawer, and you might want to start on your book report.”

After a while he got out of the bed. There was a chair, now, to go with the desk. _Yes, more meal bars, more fruit, a packet of vitamins._ He stared at those for a long time, but finally decided they were probably vitamins.

Eventually he read the book; it was the only thing to do, really. He was partway through it when the speaker crackled and told him to shower for dinner.

He did. He was just waiting for whatever punishment was going to happen; he just wanted it over with. He dried off as best he could with the hand towel. When he came out, Moriarty was sitting on a new chair at a folding table. John’s desk chair was pulled out for him; he sat down slowly. Moriarty’s face was turning some truly spectacular shades: it must hurt like hell.

“So, is this where you turn me into shoes? Or what?”

Moriarty looked puzzled, “No, this is where I eat dinner with you.”

“So, what are you going to do to me for hitting you? It must hurt like hell.”

Moriarty looked utterly perplexed; his hand came up and touched the bruise. “Yes, yes, it does… but why would I punish you? It wasn’t your fault: you were having a flashback; I doubt you even saw me.”

John tried desperately to make sense of this. “You’re not going to punish me… because I had a flashback?”

“Why would I do that? It’s not YOUR fault–if anything, it’s almost MY fault for not realizing how bad your existing traumas were.”

John sat there blinking at him in confusion.

Jim looked at him very oddly. “It’s utterly ridiculous to hold anyone to account for something like that. Now, if you’d knowingly hit me, I’d break every finger in your hand and then find some creative way to punish you, but you really weren’t all there.”

John ate dinner in silence while he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the monster across the table was more sympathetic to his PTSD than most other people.

After dinner, Moriarty asked him pleasantly, “How’s the book report?”

“I haven’t finished reading it. I had a bad day.”

Moriarty just nodded. “Well, the sooner you finish it, the sooner you earn some clothing.”

“Right. Clothes.” He sighed. “WHY do you want Sherlock? Just to get Mycroft?”

Jim started singing, “He swallowed the spider to catch the fly…”

“Right. Never mind.”

Eventually, Moriarty stood up and told him to go sit on the bed; he did. The door opened: people came and cleared away the dishes, folded the table and the other chair up, and then they all went out.

When he went to use the bathroom, there was a syringe sitting by the sink with a note. It had the name of the drug and the dose written on it, along with “take before bedtime.”

He sank down onto the toilet and stared at it. After a while he ran out into the bedroom. “You have GOT to be kidding?”

Jim’s voice came out of the speaker. “Did you know the nursery in your prior home is exactly the right placement for a grenade launcher?”

He recoiled. No further sound came from the speaker.

After a very few minutes, he gave himself the shot.

*

Jim hated leaving John alone at this early stage of conditioning, but he had a critically important engagement and he’d left simple instructions. He changed into a suit that was a few years out of date, put on a tie covered in mathematics equations, and pulled out his glasses; then he rumpled his hair and then gelled it back in place; finally, he covered the bruises as best as he could with concealer.

He nodded at Sebastian and they went out, avoiding the cameras until he got to the one place Mycroft would never look–at least, not tonight.

She was sitting in her box at the Royal Opera, her personal guards unobtrusive as always. They nodded at Jim and let him pass.

“Hello, my dearest Six,” Jim smiled at her as he sat down with his program.

She patted his hand, “My pernicious number, whatever are you up to now?”

“Ah, I’m a very practical number.”

She sighed. “Rumor has it that Moriarty is troubling the Holmes boys again. Must you?” She looked at him with her vague blue eyes that hid so much sharpness.

He looked down at the program, “I warned Mycroft, but he didn’t listen.”

“None of the boys have ever been accused of having over much sense, James.” She sighed. “I wish you could settle this.”

“So do I, but he’s gotten jealous again.” James saw the puzzled frown on her face and explained. “I found someone new, I was trying to walk away… and Mycroft tried to kill him, even after I warned him off.”

Her lips pressed together and, for a moment, she looked quite terrifying. “You would think, after all this time…”

“I wasn’t expecting it, no.” Jim sighed, “I’m afraid I played a bit rough with Sherlock when I warned him off the first time, so I’ve picked up John this time… Watson? The blogger?”

“James…” She took a deep breath, “Mycroft got himself into this mess, and, while I would prefer that you two settle this peacefully, I won’t interfere; however, I must insist that you stop dragging Sherlock into it.”

She’d never asked it of him before. Jim stared at the papers in his lap. “I’ll try, Six. I had already decided to try to leave him out of it.”

She nodded and changed the subject, “So when do I get to meet your new young man?”

Jim blinked at her a lot. “I hadn’t thought you would want to–although you might quite like Q, now that I think of it: he’s a brilliant young lad in computers.”

“Is that who you’re seeing?”

“I suppose technically I’m seeing both of them: James and Q–his real name is Quatermain, but he hates it.”

“Trichotomy?” she smiled, “Which one is assigned which value?”

Jim laughed, “Well, I suppose it is an Axiom of Choice, of a sort, but it may be closer to a musical chord.”

“Then I would like to meet both of them, dear–why would you think I wouldn’t?”

“We met because I was dating Mycroft–“

“We MET because you were at King’s College and you contributed to several of my papers. Mycroft didn’t introduce you.” She sniffed. “I expect to be introduced to both your young men.”

Jim smiled and felt as though a weight was lifted, “Of course, Six.”

The Opera was wonderful and Six’s discussion of it was as fascinating as ever. They ran quite late– finally having to leave off their conversation when the after Opera crowd was long gone, and they and the café staff were the only ones left.

Afterwards he re-joined Sebastian and they went back to the warehouse facility where they were keeping John. If he was going to keep Sherlock out of it–and, truthfully, he wanted to, even aside from her request; it really wasn’t his fault–then he had to make a decision about John’s conditioning soon.

John really was so much more than he’d thought. _I let myself get blinded by anger, probably. Hell, I hadn’t even paid attention to the PTSD, and I knew he had it. Didn’t know it was so close to Sebastian’s story, though: I missed that._

_How to get to Mycroft, though, if I didn’t go through Sherlock? And could I still use Johnny Boy?_

Jim sighed. _His wife. She was going to be a problem. Of course, she was supposed to be a problem, but if they changed the plan…_

Jim was lost in thought when he got back, and neither he nor Sebastian thought to check on John in person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The number 6 is the "first" (or smallest) of the Perfect Numbers. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perfect_number  
> It's math geekery flattery.  
> practical and pernicious are also math geek terms.


	7. Wash, Condition, Repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last of the John bashing chapters (and frankly he's a BAMF for keeping it together this long)  
> enter James Bond.

It took John over an hour to crawl out of bed the next morning. He felt like he’d been run over by a truck. He couldn’t tell WHAT anyone had done to him, because everything hurt.

He ate the food that was in the drawer and tried to read, but it hurt too much to sit in the chair. He managed to sleep a little more and, by the time he woke up, there were visible bruises spreading under his skin in spots. He tried to analyze it as a doctor, and eventually concluded they’d used electricity hard enough to cause bruising and tearing from when the muscles spasmed.

Eventually, the door opened. He would have tried to do something but it HURT. _So much for not being punished._

It was Moriarty. He came in with a towel and a basket that had a bottle and a box of gloves sticking out of it. John thought he looked angry. He wondered if that meant he was in for more abuse now.

“Honey, did my people get a bit enthusiastic?” Jim asked him, sounding very softly threatening.

John shivered at the menace in his voice. _Amazing how terrifying the man sounded when he was being so quiet._ “I assume so.”

Moriarty pulled his covers off and stood there looking him over. John didn’t care.

“Hmmmm, yes, it looks like they did. Tsk.“ He put everything down on the bedside table. “Moran?” he said to no one in the room.

“Sir?” said the speakers. _He sounded angry, too, or at least tense._

“Apparently, my instructions weren’t clear enough. Find out who needs to be reminded about their orders.” Moriarty said it calmly, but it was pretty clearly a threat.

“Yes, Sir.” And that variety of “Yes, Sir” translated to “with extreme prejudice and enthusiasm _.” So maybe this really hadn’t been what Moriarty wanted?_

“I am sorry, Johnny. I think some people took it personally… You know, when you tried to leave?”

“But you don’t?” John asked cautiously.

“No.” He sat on the bed. “I didn’t ask them to go this rough on you, Johnny, really. I’m afraid I do have other things to do and I didn’t pay enough attention. It won’t happen again.” He sounded very sincere, but, of course, he could sound like anything.

“Right, I’ll just be tortured and raped, but not EXCESSIVELY.”

Jim beamed at him. “Exactly!”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“No… No, not really… Well, maybe a bit. Just you ordinary people–even the smart ones like you–don’t understand. That’s alright.” He pulled on the medical gloves and poured some liquid into his hands. He reached down and started stroking over the worst of the bruises.

John tried to move away, but he very quickly realized there was some kind of pain killer in it and lay still.

Moriarty was humming something about pain going away, eventually he was singing? He had a pleasant voice… Everything was floating… Some part of John thought he should try to move, but Moriarty just kept talking and singing; then he wiped everything up with the towel and put everything away. John was still floating in a pleasant haze when Jim left.

When John finally came down, there were labeled, hospital-packaged pain pills on the table with a glass of water.

He ignored them and staggered into a shower, trying to wash off whatever drugs had been in the liquid‑ _no point, it all got into your system, that’s why you were flying_ –and the feeling of Moriarity’s hands on him: it didn’t work, but eventually he couldn’t stand in the shower anymore.

He couldn’t bear the idea of sleeping, so he stayed up and finished the book. John wasn’t entirely certain what kind of book report Moriarty wanted but he tried to write one, and anyway it gave him an excuse to avoid the bed. Eventually, he had no choice but to pass out; he thought about sleeping on the floor, but the bed was softer. He curled up into the corner of the bed and fell asleep.

When he woke up this time he still hurt, but he was fairly certain they were the same hurts as yesterday. He decided to take the pain pills. A servant came in with more food–John could see a guard outside, and the servant very carefully avoided touching him or looking at him–and then left. He went back to work on the book report.

The speaker called out “Thirty minutes to dinner, go take a shower,” after he’d been not writing for a little while.

 _Probably messing with my time cues_ , John sighed. No way of knowing when it was: the new room didn’t actually have a window, just a good fake.

When he came out, Moriarty was there with dinner–again.

“Do you…” John took a deep breath, “Why rape?”

“Well, you are actually attractive,” Moriarty said cheerfully. “I do like men with muscle. As to the rest? First of all, it breaks down a lot of the sense of self and personal autonomy; and secondly, orgasms are good for positive conditioning. Broccoli?”

John felt like he’d wandered into the Twilight Zone.

“Johnny? Are you ok?”

“I’m trying to wrap my head around what you said.”

“Oh. Ok… Would you like your next book to be on brainwashing and conditioning? It was going to be on Autism…”

“What?” _If bewildering me to death was part of my torture, it was working._ “I don’t think being hurt every  night is–”

“The people who went past my orders on you have been reprimanded, Johnny–you won’t see them again.”

“You really didn’t–” _mean that to punish me?_ John started to say, but Moriarty cheerfully cut him off.

“A few of them no one will see again, ever,” Jim smiled pleasantly at him. “By the way, I do want to read your book report; you don’t get clothes without my actually reading it.”

John dazedly reached over and handed him the papers. Moriarty started reading it. John kept eating, he couldn’t escape if he didn’t keep up his energy, and healing took calories.

In fairly short order, Moriarty pulled out a red pen and started marking the paper as though he was a professor. John just stared at it–it was utterly surreal. _This entire experience was surreal._

“I think it needs revision, but I want you to work on the next book first, ok?”

“So no clothes.” _Of course not, it was just a trick, after all._

“Well, I’ll give you this one, Johnny, mostly because my boys were so rough on you, but the next one I expect to see better work, alright?”

He got told to go back to the bed, and the people came in and cleaned everything up, and Moriarty put a new book down on the desk and then handed him underwear. John almost kissed him.

“Don’t forget your bedtime shot,” Moriarty said pleasantly as he walked out.

His stomach immediately threatened to get rid of dinner. He stayed up as long as he could reading a book called “The Autistic Brain: Thinking Across the Spectrum”. He only realized he’d fallen asleep when the voice from the speaker started reciting people’s addresses.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I fell asleep, I’m going…” He shook badly, but he gave himself the shot.

*

He woke up feeling a lot better–a LOT better. He had an IV mark in his arm–a new one. The sheets had been changed. He wasn’t wearing his underwear but there was a new pair on the chair. His skin felt clean and the stubble he’d been developing was gone. He decided he didn’t want to do an inventory of what had likely happened, and he got the food and went back to the book.

Shower, Dinner, Moriarty–it was becoming expected, almost comforting. _It really shouldn’t be comforting._

Moriarty talked to him about the new book, and the old one. It was sometimes difficult to keep up with his conversation; it was almost like talking to Sherlock, but with more normal give-and-take and connection. _And isn’t that something…_

“You think Sherlock is Autistic?”

“He’s somewhere on the spectrum: haven’t you noticed the stimming?”

“The what?”

Moriarty fluttered his hands in exactly the way Sherlock did, and hummed the same sort of way. “Stimming. I’ll get you a different book on it.”

“He… doesn’t seem quite like the book.”

“No one is ‘quite like the book’, Doctor: you should know that. Besides, he’s just so much smarter than most people, it confuses things.”

“You think he’s Asexual, too?” John had been wondering why he was getting this choice of books…

“Yes.” Jim looked thoughtful and added, “I suppose he could be Demi-sexual; it would be hard to tell, especially given his touch and sensory issues.”

“His what?”

“Touch and sensory issues.” Moriarty shrugged, “He’s hypersensitive to certain sensation, sounds, that sort of thing. It’s what made it so easy to take him apart, really.”

John shuddered. _Right, he’d done something like this to Sherlock._

Moriarty smiled at him, “No. Not the same. But then, you don’t have a problem with those sensations: you have an addiction to danger, and action, and, other than that, you like pleasure and hate pain, just like most people.”

“Right, you think you’re conditioning me.”

“I know I am.” He smiled just a touch more broadly. “Do you want to have sex without the drugs yet?”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. Wouldn’t you prefer knowing what I did? Instead of wondering?” Jim ate a bite of pie. “Besides, it can be a LOT more fun with cooperation.”

“I do NOT want to have sex with you under any circumstances at all.”

“Suit yourself.”

They cleared everything away and Moriarty reminded him to take his shot.

He stared at the shot that night and wondered if it wouldn’t be less damaging to remember. He gave himself a shot.

*

He woke up covered in very small bruises and his back felt like it was on fire, and yet he had a feeling he associated with having had a fantastic night with someone. He spent as much time in the shower as he could. There was new underwear on the chair again. He read the rest of the book and started working on the book report.

Moriarty came in without the usual thirty minute warning.

“We have company, of all things,” Jim said, looking at him thoughtfully.

“What? No, Sherlock–”

“No, not Sherlock–James.” Moriarty looked at his blank expression and laughed, “James Bond.”

 _Right, he was important somehow._ “What?”

“Come along, Johnny, this just might be your ticket out.” Moriarty put a leash on his collar and led him out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm loading this early because i have a funeral on Thursday (the usual update day)   
> Stuart Roseman, May his memory be a Blessing, was one of my husband's groomsmen way back when in 11-07-87. we had been RPG buddies for longer than that.


	8. Traitors and Spies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's mind palace, and the addition of Bond, Q, and M.  
> have i mentioned that no one at MI6 thinks very highly of Mycroft anymore?

Mycroft looked at the most recent files‑nothing useful. John had been missing for six days. Sherlock had tried to get away from the guards again yesterday, and they only JUST managed to find him and bring him back. He was beginning to worry about Mary going after him, as well, although her background was standing her in good stead–she was letting the professionals work. They hadn’t made any progress, just a lot of false leads and trails. And of course all of the other demands on his time couldn’t possibly let up.

Mycroft needed to go into his mind and do some intensive work, but… he was beginning to be afraid to.  Jim was always there, and so was young Mycroft, and he didn’t want to face them _.  Ignoring them won’t make them go away._   He reminded himself firmly.  _You tried that_.  He let himself go.

~

Mycroft looked around at his mind palace.  Most of it was still intact, but darkness was pooling up in the corners and the lights were dim.  He walked over and opened the shades.

When he turned back, Jim was sitting on his desk offering his baby brother an apple.

“I won’t let you have him.” Mycroft said, struggling to stay calm.  He moved Sherlock away. 

Childhood Sherlock looked up at him with big eyes, “he took my friend.”

Mycroft looked back at Jim, who was dangling a set of dog tags and a stethoscope from his fingers.  _Right, John was a soldier, not just a doctor, he needed to look for a soldier._

“You know he wants me, not him.”  Young Mycroft said, leaning against the wall.

Mycroft walked over and took the umbrella blade out of his hands and stabbed him.  He slid down the wall, eyes gone blank and empty.

“Tsk.” Jim laughed from the desk. “You tried that before.  I thought he was gone, you know. I really did. I thought you’d killed him off, but you brought him back.  You won’t get rid of him again that easily.”

He drove the sword into Jim, laughing on his desk, watched blood well up in his mouth as he grabbed Mycroft’s hands. Mycroft pulled the blade clear and watched as Jim fell to the floor. He suddenly looked very young, as young as he had when they’d met. He looked up at him from the floor, as if he was lying outside in the grass, “You always stab me in the heart, Mycroft.”

~

Mycroft woke up. He took a deep shaky breath.

He called his people and changed the search parameters.

Within an hour they had a report of a soldier who’d had a PTSD flashback, shot up the house, shot one of his fellow employees, broken a few bones.  He’d confessed, and the entire household had refused to press charges, simply asking him to be hospitalized.  He looked at the case.  _John. John had gotten a gun and tried to escape.  This was the cover up. That had been days ago_ … he cursed himself for a coward.

He stopped by and told Sherlock they had progress. Sherlock simply stared at him coldly. _He looked better._

“I think I know how to cut through this quickly, we’ll have him back soon.”

“He had me for less than two days, Mycroft.”

“I know, but it took weeks for Q. I don’t think he just wants to break him Sherlock, he needs him to pull you in.”

“And he needs me to pull you in.” Sherlock said flatly.

“Yes.”

“If you gave a damn about anyone but yourself, Mycroft, we wouldn’t be in this mess.  If he got me you wouldn’t come get me.”

“I would.”

“No. no I don’t think you would.” Sherlock said, “I think you would have, at one time, but… you didn’t HAVE to try to kill them.  You chose to, even though you put me at risk.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ve yelled at you for years about it and then I let my emotions get the better of me, but I know how to fix it.”

He went into the other room, took out his phone, and called into MI6.

*

Bond was called into M’s office. When he got there he found Q sitting there looking angry.  He started to say something flip to M, but thought better of it, M looked furious.

“Reporting in as ordered.” Bond said, raising an eyebrow at M. 

She nodded at the speaker, “You’re on.”

“Bond? Mycroft Holmes.”

Bond let out a breath and glanced at M and at Q. “I see, and what can I do for you, Mycroft?”

“Jim Moriarty kidnapped someone; I need you to get him back.”

Bond ignored the worried look on Q’s face. “I don’t listen to you, Mycroft.  I really never took orders well from traitors.”

M smiled approvingly. Q flinched.

There was a pause from the line, “I made a mistake, Agent Bond, but I was acting in what I thought was the best interests of –“

“No you weren’t.” Bond said flatly. “If you want to talk to me, it helps to stop lying.”

There was a longer pause. “Alright.”

“Why should I bother to help you?”

“I did make a mistake, OO7. I let an apparently perfect situation‑ you already in trouble, and Jim and Q leaving the country to go off after you‑ tempt me. It was a momentary weakness, and believe me Jim’s made certain I am paying for it.  My political career is severely curtailed.”

“I didn’t think you’d anything to do with the mess that started it.” Bond said thoughtfully. “Jim had been concerned that sending me off as a last minute substitute had been your idea.” He nodded at M “understandable, if incorrect.”

“No, I had nothing to do with your assignment. I didn’t even know it was YOU until Jim and Q left the country.”

“Which brings us back to the point,” Bond said politely, “Why should I help you?”

“Jim couldn’t get to my brother, so he took Dr. Watson.”

“What?!” Q sat up, looking confused.

Bond raised an eyebrow, “well that’s…” then he shrugged. “I already told M, John is more his type than Sherlock.”

There was a sort of sharp noise on the other end of the line.  Bond pictured a pencil snapping. “You… you may be right, Bond.” Mycroft took a breath, “In any event he’s had him since the day after you returned. Six days now.”

“I repeat, why should I help you?”

“I don’t suppose I could appeal to your duty‑“

Bond laughed, “YOU? Why would I believe anything you are doing has to do with my duty?”

“Bond asks a fair question, Mr. Holmes,” M said tightly, “People who try to kill my agents because they’re jealous don’t have a lot of authority with me.”

Q hesitantly spoke up, “Dr. John didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, no he didn’t.” Mycroft said tiredly, “Neither did my baby brother. This… is my responsibility.”

“Since it IS your responsibility,” M snapped, “why don’t YOU go ask him to hand the fellow over?”

“M… I can assure you that if Jim gets his hands on me, I won’t die.”

Bond blinked a few times and looked thoughtful.  He glanced at M, who frowned. _There were all sorts of ways that could be very bad._

“Ok, this is more field agent stuff, which I admit I am FAR behind on, but I take it that’s not good?” Q asked drily. “Mind you, you almost got ME captured alive by Russian intelligence, so I’m not incredibly sympathetic.”

“You were…”

“Collateral damage.” Bond said, “Yes, I know.  And that’s the stupidest part of this, Mycroft. Because Q is more dangerous to the security of the nation than Jim and I put together.”

Sherlock’s voice, tired and tense sounding, came across the line. “Can you get him back, Mr. Bond?”

“Sherlock, go back and let me handle it.” Mycroft said.

“No. I won’t.  Can you, Mr. Bond?”

“I have no idea.” Bond answered truthfully. “Jim is… unhappy with your brother.”

“Yes, I had a rather intense introduction to how unhappy, when he had me as a hostage.” Sherlock’s voice shook. “I hadn’t known they were connected before.  Moriarty… he left a note, it mentioned you.”

Bond was puzzled, “I obviously don’t have all the facts.”

“He said your philosophy on not breaking valuable things was why I was still sane.  He also told Mycroft that if he touched you, I wouldn’t be.” He heard Sherlock take a deep breath, “apparently he had a change of heart, and so instead of taking me, he took John.”

Q reached out a hand for Bond; Bond carefully put Q’s hand down on his leg and put his hand over it.

“I wasn’t aware my philosophical arguments had such impact.  I was mostly trying to explain why he shouldn’t break Q.”

“I still don’t understand how you could reach him at all, “Mycroft said. “Most moral or ethical arguments slide off him like water off a duck.”

“My specific philosophy is a working one, more applicable to the field. In any case I was talking to your brother, the Holmes who isn’t a traitor.”

He heard Mycroft hiss, and smiled.

Sherlock made a sort of vague humming noise, and then, “Look, He took John instead of me. As Q said, John didn’t do anything.  He’s suffering in my place right now.  I don’t think Mycroft would actually put himself at risk to save me, but I’ll do anything to save John.”

Bond just shrugged, “Then I suggest you explain that to Jim when you see him. He has little point in destroying you if it won’t get what he wants.”

“You’re a cold man, Bond.” Mycroft’s voice on the line.

“Yes. I’m a Double-O and I’m still alive.” Bond was about to continue when Q spoke up.

“I’ll ask him.”

“What?” Sherlock’s voice.

Mycroft voice, “Oh, of course you can reach him.  I just didn’t think he’d listen to you.”

“He… might not.” Q looked at Bond, “he might.”

“Jim already had far too much fun getting his hooks back into you on the mission,” Bond said tightening his hand on Q’s, “Having you back in touch is a VERY bad idea.”

Q looked firmly at Bond. “Then you ask him.”

Bond sighed and rubbed his forehead. _Jim getting his hooks further into ME was a bad idea too_ , but he didn’t say that.

“I take it that your Quartermaster’s requests have more weight than mine,” Mycroft said drily.

“ANYONE’s requests have more weight than yours.” Bond said pleasantly. “But in the interests of keeping Q far, far away from Jim, I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock sounded very sincere.

“Thank you.” Mycroft less so.

“Mycroft.” Bond stated with some emphasis, “I’m going to do this, because John IS an innocent bystander in this and because Q asked me to, but you don’t get off that easily.

“My very best friend –practically my brother‑ was Alec Trevelyan, OO6.”‑Q looked up as he remembered the conversation between Bond and Jim. “He betrayed Crown and Country for HIS personal vengeance, Mycroft, and I killed him.”

“I… understand, OO7.”

No, I don’t think you do understand,” Bond said pleasantly. “It doesn’t matter to me HOW you stop being a threat to the country, Mycroft, as long as you do.”  He nodded at M, and M cut the link.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q saves the day, or John at least.


	9. By appointment only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell of a receptionist, though.

Q had done the simple thing: given them the address of the BDSM house he’d been taken to, and a description of the dominatrix, Sasha. Bond could have kicked himself for forgetting about that contact point.

So Bond showed up on the doorstep and rang the bell. A woman matching Q’s description, albeit in more usual clothing, answered the door. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Jim.”

“You don’t have an appointment,” she said flatly.

Sasha was very attractive and was clearly looking dismissive of him; the combination was like catnip to Bond: he wanted to have her under him screaming his name, just to prove he could. _I expect the combination did something entirely different to Q, though._ “No.” He made a point of looking her up and down appraisingly. “Do I need one?”

“We work on an appointment only basis,” she said, looking him over like she wanted to put him down.

Bond just smiled an easy “I know I’m good looking” smile, and leaned in slightly. “I’d like an appointment, then. How’s now?”

“I can see if we have time,” she nodded and let him step in, clearly up to no good.

As soon as the door closed she tried to drop a lead over his head. He grabbed the man behind the door and threw him into her; they fell to the ground in a tangle.

“Naughty, naughty,” Bond smirked. The man tried to get up and Bond grabbed him by the foot. “Unless you want me to twist your knee clean OFF, I suggest you stay down.”

The woman pulled a knife and moved in.

Bond just grinned. “Oh, well, now I feel at HOME.” He pulled the unknown man to his feet and used him as a shield; Sasha was clearly practiced with a knife, but not with hostages. The man was screaming and pleading with her to stop.

Bond had picked up the lead and flicked it out into her face; she blinked and Bond pushed the man away and grabbed her knife hand. After that it was a simple twist to disarm her and pin her arms up behind her back.

“So, you’re Sasha. Who’s your playmate?”

The man had fallen hard into the table and was trying to get to his feet. Bond simply growled at him and he stayed down.

“He’s well trained, anyway.” Bond shrugged, “I’m here to see Jim: who gets to call him?”

“I don’t have his number,” the man said, staying down on the floor, “and he’s not here right now.”

“I won’t call him,” Sasha snarled at him.

Bond groaned. “Look, sweetheart, I can get the answers out of you, but I suspect Jim likes you looking presentable. Call him, I’ll tell him I’m here. No traps or anything.”

“Fuck you.”

“Tsk, language,” Bond said, imitating Jim’s voice, mostly out of amusement. She froze.

Bond looked thoughtful. “Changed your mind?”

“Maybe. Where did you hear that?”

“I spent a lot of time with Jim.” Bond thought for a minute and reluctantly decided on a tactic. “We co-own a fluffy-haired boffin.”

She twisted a bit to look back at him. “Big glasses?”

“Jim initialed him when he was here.”

“You… co-own him?” She sounded VERY confused.

“Call Jim.”

“Let go of me.”

He did. She started to reach into a drawer; he made the back of the throat “Tch!” noise Jim made when he was annoyed. She stopped and stepped back.

“The phone is in there, so is a gun,” she admitted cautiously.

Bond nodded and opened the drawer. He tossed the phone to her. “Go ahead.”

She dialed; after a moment she said, “We have uninvited company. He says he knows you.” After a pause she said, “He… He sounds like you, and he says you… co-own? that cute sub.” She looked dubiously at Bond, “Dangerous looking, blond, blue eyes…” she listened and then handed the phone to Bond.

“Hullo, Jim.”

“James? James it IS you… You don’t sound like me, whatever does she mean?”

“I may have mimicked your disapproving noises.” Bond grinned, “Tsk! Language!”

Jim cracked up. Eventually, he managed to squeak out, “Well, I doubt you’re there for Sasha’s business.”

“I’d like to talk to you, actually.”

“Do you mind coming here?”

“I’m armed, and I’m not getting in the back seat of anything.” Bond remembered far too many times being tranquilized in a taxi.

“There must be a story to that.”

“Many.” Bond sighed, “Look, Mycroft–”

“Mycroft?!” Jim practically yelped into the phone. “Did he try anything, James? I swear, I’ll skin him!”

“He asked me to get John back.”

There was a lengthy pause, then, “You are JOKING.”

“No. I told him I don’t take orders, or even suggestions, from traitors.”

“I will pay you in bearer bonds for a recording of that conversation.”

“I’ll ask M: it was her office.”

“And?”

“Q is getting upset,” Bond admitted.

“Oh? OH! Oh, yes, John was his doctor.” Jim sounded thoughtful.

“I said I would ask.” Bond sighed, “Look, Jim, I don’t care much one way or the other about most people, but really? John seemed ok… I mean, he isn’t Navy, but he’s alright for Army.”

Jim giggled. “Tell you what: you come over and we’ll talk. I’ll send a car. Put Sasha back on?”

Bond handed her back the phone. She listened with her eyes getting wider for several minutes. When she handed back the phone she kept her eyes down and very politely asked Bond if he would like some tea.

“I’d love some.”

She was polite, deferential, and attentive for the next hour, until Jim’s driver showed up. Bond wondered what the hell Jim had SAID.


	10. We have a system…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i know this entire conversation sounds choppy as all get out, but honestly thats how it went. also several of the people involved are slightly unreliable narrators.

Bond arrived at an industrial looking building, where he was shown in by a man who had “unimportant minion” all but stamped on his forehead–Bond had seen a lot of them–was taken through an active warehouse, and then through to an elevator. The man turned the key and they went down below the bottom-marked floor. When the door opened Sebastian Moran was standing there. The minion took the elevator back up when he got off.

“Moran,” Bond nodded. “Good to see you again.”

Moran sighed and looked appraisingly at him, “Maybe he’ll listen to YOU.”

“I doubt it, but stranger things have happened.”

They came out into a very comfortable looking sitting room. It had upholstered chairs and charming side tables and a plush looking sofa. Jim was standing there looking all cute and adorable. “James, darling! Come in.” _He had a hell of a bruise on his cheek, expertly covered with makeup._

“Nice… evil lair,” Bond said looking around. “Looks comfortable _.” Much nicer than the usual evil lair, in fact: they usually looked uncomfortable and menacing._ Bond found himself surreptitiously checking for hidden trap doors over shark tanks.

“Yes, isn’t it? I do think the usual décor in evil lairs is so unseemly, really.” Jim came over and guided him to a chair.

“So, John?”

“Partway through being conditioned; he’s not so easy; and, unfortunately, some of my people got a bit enthusiastic.” Jim started out sounding cheerful and darkened into unhappy menace toward the end.

Bond knew you could do a lot to someone in six days... He wondered how long John would be in a hospital recovering.

“Can you turn him loose?”

“I’d like to, really I would, but I need him to get Sherlock, and I need Sherlock to get Mycroft. It’s always worked that way: we have a system.”

Jim looked a bit unhappy, or maybe uncertain– _I can work with  that… wait, what?_ Bond raised an eyebrow, “A system?”

“System, tradition, whatever.”

“Look, can’t we just kidnap Mycroft?” Bond suggested reasonably.

Jim stared at him. “You were guarding him with your life at the hospital.”

“He wasn’t a traitor then.” Bond shrugged.

Jim frowned and looked at Moran. “Well, it would be simpler… but we have a SYSTEM…” he said sort of unhappily.

Moran looked firmly at Jim, “Sometimes change is good, Sir. I think you might want to consider it.”

Bond glanced at Moran–“ _He might listen to you.” Ah._ –and nodded, “Being too predictable is a security issue, anyway; a change of plans might be just the right thing.”

Jim looked dubious. “I don’t know... Well, let me get John: he was due for a social hour, anyway.” And Jim walked out.

Bond looked at Moran. “You have a system?”

Moran shrugged, “HE has a system. The sad thing is, it works. Watson–or one of the other friends in a pinch, but usually Watson–to Sherlock Holmes, to Mycroft. Basically, the only way to get Mycroft Holmes out of that fortress of an office is Sherlock.”

“So he was never that interested in Sherlock?” Bond asked dubiously.

“Never said that. Looked to me like he was bloody fascinated with him, but it still was a means to get to Mycroft.”

After a while Bond asked, “So, have you met Sasha?”

Moran nodded, “Sure.”

“Is she normally polite and deferential?”

Moran was still choking when Jim walked John in on a leash. Bond fell into analysis immediately. _He was walking stiffly: part of that was pain, but more was caution. He had old bruising under the skin in a lot of places, but nothing major seemed damaged. His eyes though… His eyes looked like he was a few days from cracking–if that. Oh, he was naked, except for a pair of briefs and a collar._

Jim sat down on the couch and pulled John down to sit next to him. John was staring at Bond in shock.

“Hello, Doctor. I’m trying to negotiate for your release.” _Best to tell him why I was here immediately: the man didn’t look that stable._

John opened his mouth to say something and shut it, fast. “Yes, please, that would be lovely. Thank you,” he said instead, looking rather desperately at Bond.

Jim frowned at Bond. “Do you know, this is the THIRD time I have underestimated someone?”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’ve considered it carefully, and I think the problem is I have been using the Holmes brothers as my benchmarks.”

John muttered something under his breath.

“What?” Jim asked him.

“Nothing…”

Jim smiled at him.

 Bond had never, ever seen THAT smile on Jim’s face–it made him want to get a gun, a hot poker, or a harpoon and put it between Jim’s eyes. He suddenly understood everyone else’s reaction to the name “Moriarty.” His hand itched for a gun or knife, and he held still with an effort.

John flinched, “I said it was a fairly squirrely benchmark.”

“Not a high one?”

“That, too. But they… they don’t just think at a higher level–they think differently.”

Jim leaned in and kissed John on the forehead. John held very still; the tension in him was visible. “Yes, Johnny, exactly right.”

Bond cleared his throat. “So… Is there any way we can keep John and Sherlock out of this?”

John looked up hopefully. Bond thought it was from keeping Sherlock out of it. _He was one of the loyal people, no doubt._

“Look, James, it’s really very simple–”

“You have a system, you said.”

“A what?” John looked around in confusion.

Jim shrugged, “We have a system, Johnny: you for Sherlock; Sherlock for Mycroft. It’s worked so far.”

John gritted his teeth.

Jim shrugged again, and his body language changed. He sat back casually, looking suddenly very young. “Look, it’s very simple.  The system worked before, but now Mycroft has changed and it’s all a bit odd. I really thought the old Mycroft was long gone, you know? But I can see him again, the old ‘everything is about me–everything’, Mycroft. He betrayed his country! ACTUALLY used his office to try to kill us all–”

“What?!” John sputtered. Jim just waved at him and kept talking to Bond.

“You never knew him before, James… He was… He was completely selfish, incredibly smart, and ruthlessly evil.” Jim sighed in a resigned fashion, “But, every now and then, he was brilliant, and evil, and NOT completely self-absorbed… and then he decided to throw it all away for Crown and Country–and his brother, a bit–and left. I wanted him broken and dead, and now I wonder…”

“Jim… Are you telling me you want your ex back?” Bond stared at him. _He couldn’t be falling for that trap, could he? Yes,_ Bond finally admitted, _he could–even smart people can be stupid, sometimes._

“WHAT?!” John howled; Jim ignored him; so did Bond.

“Yes and no.” Jim sighed, “No, I don’t want him back–he was horribly bad for me and abusive as hell. Yes, of course a part of me does–I thought he was gone for good.” Jim paused and grinned, “Oh, that’s funny… gone for GOOD; he was–over to the side of the angels.”

“I do NOT understand, not at all,” John said looking back and forth between them all. He finally caught Moran’s eye. Moran just looked pityingly at him and shook his head.

Jim continued, “To see a glimmer of the old Mycroft? I didn’t know that part of him still existed.” He sagged slightly, “It’s been years, and now I’m mostly remembering how much it hurt when he left.”

Bond rubbed his forehead. “He’s a traitor.”

“Yes, yes, I know, that’s important to you. That’s not the point.” Jim waved him off, “The point is; now I don’t know whether to continue to destroy him slowly and painfully or try to get him back.”

Bond took a deep breath. “What would happen if you got him back?”

Jim frowned, “I don’t know. I’m not really sure he can COME back.” Jim looked thoughtful, “Maybe I could get him back and destroy him slowly?”

“Would it be good enough to kidnap him?” Bond asked, ruthlessly trying to keep this on topic.

John stared at them all again, “You can’t kidnap Mycroft!”

“Well, it’s very difficult to–I know, I’ve tried,” Jim said nodding and reaching over to pat John’s hand. Bond noticed that John didn’t flinch or try to move away, and frowned.

“Bloody office is a fortress,” Moran muttered.

“Look, seriously. If you GOT him, what would you DO with him?” Bond asked.

“Try to wake him up? Try to bring him back? Torture him to death?” Jim thought pleasantly about carving his name in Mycroft over and over.

“And that would mean what, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Jim said finally. He looked up at Bond. “You are wonderful and marvelous and I don’t want to lose you, don’t ever think that… and Q is just special and precious… but Mycroft was my first, and I really feel like I need closure there.”

John had sat back on the sofa muttering “Balmy.”

Bond resolutely turned the conversation back. “I doubt that conditioning John is going to help you get Mycroft… or get him back, for that matter.”

Jim frowned, “It was part of a longer-term–”

“And you said you were underestimating people…”

“Yeeesss…”

“Perhaps you should re-think your plans? With the new information and not underestimating people?” Bond said trying to sound reasonable in a way that would reach Jim. “This was originally about PUNISHING Mycroft, right? By going after his brother? And then you picked up John instead?”

John tensed.

“Well, yes.”

“Whether you want him back or want to capture him, punishing him isn’t exactly the way to go, and John and Sherlock really aren’t involved…”

Jim looked completely blank for a moment; it was eerie, like he had turned off. Then expression came back onto his face. “James, you have a point. Punishing him might help, but it has to be done right.”

He turned and frowned at John. “You’re really not a goldfish.”

“The what then?” John said staring at him.

“And I really would prefer to leave them out of it…” Jim bit his lip thoughtfully, “Alright, James, you can have John back… at a cost.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, “It better not be expensive: I’m doing this as a favor already.”

John wanted to scream, but he wasn’t entirely sure if this wasn’t a carefully laid plot by Bond. It did seem to be working, after all.

“John’s been a lot of much needed stress relief, and he’s been coming along very nicely. If I’m giving him up, I want payback for the payback,” Jim nodded firmly.

Bond blinked a few times and then grinned. He leaned back, “I dunno…” but he was grinning.

“Can anyone–anyone at all–tell me what’s going on?” John sounded broken.

Bond glanced over at the tone– _He’s really not doing well_ –and started explaining. “Jim put one over on me early on. He had me at a very bad disadvantage, and put me down hard and kissed me. I got him back for it recently, when I put HIM down hard and did a bit more than kiss him. He’s basically saying he wants me down… in bed.”

Moran was staring at Bond. “I want details.”

“Ask your boss.”

“Boys, boys… I love you all, now let’s not be jealous.” Jim waved a hand and smiled at Bond. “Well?”

“You KNOW I don’t sub worth a damn.” _I am NOT actually considering this…_

“That’s what makes you so much fun, though.”

Bond wanted to say no. _It wasn’t worth the risk, but Jim was addictive…. Fuck me, I am actually considering this._

“Answer a few questions first?” What was left of his self-preservation was screaming and waving flags in the back of Bond’s mind; he ignored it.

“Sure,” Jim said brightly.

“Well, first: what happened to your cheek?”

“John. He had a very bad PTSD attack, I wasn’t prepared for it.”

Bond raised an eyebrow and looked at John. _Well, damn, in that case he was in fantastic shape._

John meanwhile was staring at Jim’s face. “Oh… It’s MAKEUP. I thought I was imagining things.”

“More to the point: are you going to actually honor a safeword?”

Jim looked unhappy, “I’ll try, but you know it’s not natural for me. How about some hard limits set ahead of time? And a time limit?”

“Then how can I be sure I won’t just end up trading myself in for John? Because, if you try to keep me against my will, I’ll try to kill you, and that doesn’t end up well.”

 _That doesn’t end up well, he says! They’re BOTH mad!_ John was sitting with his mouth slightly open listening to the exchange.

“Q!” Jim said happily.

“No, you got your hooks into him far too‑“

“No, no… I mean you can tell Q where you are, and tell him not to tell anyone unless you don’t come back on time!”

Bond thought about that. “That… works.”

“Charming! Moran can start packing John up, while we go make a phone call.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. yes the switch from Johnny to John corresponds to a change in Jim's style and thoughts.  
> 2\. Bond knows this is a VERY bad idea, he's doing it anyway.  
> 3\. Moran knows this is a bad idea but it seems like the best we've got.  
> 4\. Jim is just happy to get an excuse to leave Sherlock out of it.  
> 5\. John started wondering if this was more drugs a long time ago.
> 
> ps. my husband started calling Moriarty " Jim- i have a system- Moriarty" after this chapter was drafted out.


	11. Tea Fixes Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets out, and there is tea.

Q had gone home and was trying to keep busy. _Bond would call him with news, and Jim wouldn’t hurt him… right? And Jim probably wouldn’t hurt Doctor Watson; I mean, he hadn’t done anything…_

It seemed like forever, but by the clock Bond hadn’t been gone all that long when Q got a phone call.

“Q?” Bond said on the phone. “I need you to be a failsafe information drop.”

“I’m listening…” _Please let this all have worked out…._

Bond gave him an address. Q had it up on the computer before he replied, “What’s the failsafe?”

“If I don’t report in by tomorrow.”

Jim’s voice spoke breathily in the background, “Late tomorrow. Very late.”

Q flushed, and had to swallow hard. “Ah, play date? Don’t you want me there? And what about our missing doctor?”

Jim said, “Of course I want you here, Q darling.”

James growled, “You can’t be here–you’re the safety on this. Can you accept a package delivery?” Bond used the codes so automatically; Q supposed he never had to think about it.

“I believe you know my address, although the security system was changed out recently.” Q hoped the package was John, alive and in one piece, but he wasn’t sure.

“No, it wasn’t, Q darling, or at least not in any way that matters. I had the cameras put back in already,” Jim sang out happily.

Q felt incredible relief; then he wondered why; and then he realized that was actually a problem.

Bond meanwhile was saying, “You WHAT?”

“Surely you didn’t expect me to give up my cameras? I love watching people.”

“We had those ripped out!”

“Yes, I had them put back.”

Q had pulled himself together, “Can we argue about this later?” _Oh, dear God, the two of them, I swear!_

He could hear Bond grumbling.

“I am home, and, yes, he can be dropped off here.” Q sighed, “Will he need medical?”

“Not really,” Jim said.

“YES”, Bond said.

_Fuck my life. They’re going to kill me._

“Right. See you tomorrow, Bond. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Now there’s a thought,” Jim said happily as he hung up.

Q wanted desperately to BE there. He also wanted desperately to run like hell. As it was, he paced around his home and waited.

Two hours later, a dazed but healthy looking John, in something like pajamas– _and a collar_ , Q noted immediately–was escorted up to the door by Sebastian Moran.

“Would you like to come in?” Q asked him a bit dubiously.

“Yes, he isn’t coherent yet.”

Moran steered John through the house with a degree of familiarity for Q’s furniture that worried him. “Do I take it you’ve been in my house?”

“Obviously.”

“Ah.”

Once he had John on the sofa, he pulled out an injector of some kind and gave him a shot.

“Antidote?”

“Basically.” Moran was checking John’s pulse.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Tea?” said John very confusedly. His eyes started focusing as Q got tea for all three of them.

“Tea,” Q said firmly. “Tea solves everything.”

“Right, well, I better get back and pick up the pieces,” sighed Moran.

“The two of them together is… um… explosive,” Q said hesitantly.

“I know,” Moran sighed again, staring down at his cup.

John looked around, “Where am I now?”

“My house, doctor. Sebastian brought you.”

“Ah. Can…” he looked at Moran, “Can I leave?”

“Yes.” Moran leaned back on Q’s couch. “God save all us poor military men.”

John’s hand shook a bit. Q poured him more tea. “He’s out of his mind, you know,” John said quietly.

Moran snorted, “So? Yours isn’t?”

“He’s saner than THAT.”

Moran shrugged. “Look, you call your pretty thing to come over to this pretty thing and pick you up.”

Q flushed, “Are you comparing...”

“You are, and he is,” Moran said idly as he looked Q over appreciatively. “I wouldn’t throw either of you out of bed.”

John looked worriedly back and forth. “I don’t think bothering Q was part of the plan.”

“Bothering?” Moran stared at him. “Ohh, right. You have no information, do you?”

“Apparently not.” John started shivering.

Q grabbed a blanket and helped him wrap up. “Who do I call?”

“Sherlock,” John said shakily. He gave Q a number.

Q dialed it while Moran pulled the blankets snugger around John and got him some pillows behind his back. “Here you go, Captain… Watch your back: you pulled some muscles, I think.”

“Hello?” Q said into the phone. “Sherlock? It’s Q. Bond got Doctor Watson out. He’s here. Do you want me to bring him there?”

Q flashed a very unpleasant smile. “NO, Sherlock, I would not trust myself in a car driven by one of your brother’s men. Ever.

“Yes, you can come here, but Mycroft is NOT welcome. Period.” Q gave his address, for all that he thought Mycroft had it already.

“He’s coming here,” Q said as he hung up.

John whispered, “I think it’s a trap.”

“It would have been,” shrugged Moran, “but Jim is a damned idiot for Bond, and he’s been heartbroken over Mycroft.”

John closed his eyes and opened them again, he looked at Moran, and he looked back at Q. “Do I take it that I am the only person who thinks the idea of MYCROFT dating MORIARTY is peculiar?”

“It was before my time; I’m used to the idea,” Moran said.

Q smiled tiredly, “I was being conditioned to help get back at him; I think I knew… even if it wasn’t stated until after Mycroft tried to kill us all.”

“You…” John stared blearily at Q. “Right, he had you for weeks. Why are you sane?”

Q raised an eyebrow, “You don’t know me that well–why do you think I am?”

“Why aren’t you… Why are you…” John scrubbed his face with his hands.

“Easy, Captain… Doc… It’s okay, you’re out. Jim was looking for an excuse to let you out and Bond gave him one. You’re going to be okay.”

Q nodded, “I didn’t think it would have been that fast if he hadn’t been inclined to let you go.”

“Pity I can’t stay; perhaps some time when it’s not so tense,” Sebastian said, giving one more appreciative glance at Q.

John looked at Q and back at Moran, then asked Q, “You aren’t at all concerned about Colonel Moran or Jim? Why aren’t you?”

Q smiled tightly. “Mr. Moran, please explain to the gentleman why I don’t have to worry about you and where Jim comes into this?”

Moran grinned, “Q belongs to Jim… and Bond. Far be it from me to lay a finger on him without permission.”

“What?” John’s voice was very quiet.

“I belong to them–under certain circumstances, anyway,” Q sighed. “I believe ‘it’s complicated’ is a bit mild, but John, when Mycroft tried to bully Bond into going to get you, he naturally balked because it was Mycroft who asked. We were both rather more inclined to help Sherlock, but I think Bond would have refused just because Mycroft asked…

“I offered to try to get you back because you really didn’t do anything to get in the middle of this, and I think it’s horribly unfair.”

“Then why did James–Bond–show up to get me?” John asked, trying desperately to make sense of this.

Q sighed. “Bond didn’t want me to go to try to rescue you because he wants to try to keep Jim away from me–at this point I’ve rather given up on that idea. Something about being in bed with the two of them does tend to make you lose any sense of self preservation. I do worry about the two of them, though: they’re an explosive mix.”

Moran grinned. “Jim said Bond got him back for putting him down that time… and the price to get John out was that Jim got to put Bond down.”

“That’s… That’s not safe without me,” Q said worriedly.

“Without YOU?” John asked, and he could see Moran raising an eyebrow.

“I’m a submissive,” he said in very clinical tones. _Defense mechanism_. “They can both sort of… take out their aggressions on me, instead of each other.”

“Oh! That makes sense,” Moran nodded. “I wondered how they survived an extended period together.”

“You do understand,” John asked, “that none of this makes any sense at all, right?”

Q shrugged, “My life stopped making sense some time ago.”

Moran suddenly looked at Q again, “Wait, you were THERE? When Bond managed to put Jim down?”

“Yes,” Q said, sipping tea.

Moran asked intently, “And they’re still TALKING to each other? And on good terms?”

“Yes,” Q smiled into his tea cup.

“I’d be willing to do quite a few favors for details.”

“Actually,” Q poured himself more tea, “I have it all recorded on my computer. What’s it worth?”

Moran just stared at Q with something approaching awe. He handed Q a card. “We’ll talk. We will definitely talk.” He pulled his attention back and looked at John, “I have to leave. I doubt your boss is reasonable right now.”

John just looked at him. Moran got up, thanked Q for the tea, and was heading for the door when John managed to speak again, “Thank you. For showing me any respect.”

Moran’s eyes flickered over him, and he smiled faintly, “Well, what… I think all three of us are in the sidekick category, aren’t we? And you and I are both Army, and both trying to keep up with the impossible. Just do what you can to keep Sherlock and yourself from getting dragged back into this and you may never even see Jim again.” Sebastian let himself out.

Q came over, pulled the blankets more tightly around John, and refilled his tea. They waited for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tea fixes everything. PS your tea is getting cold


	12. flowers and guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock retrieves John from Q's house  
> and Jim's system still works

Moran went out and pulled the car away, but not far. He took up position nearby with his sniper scope and watched.

Sherlock was brought up by one of Mycroft’s drivers. Moran scanned along carefully… _Damn if Jim wasn’t right: there was Mycroft in one of the following cars. The system worked every single time._

He carefully aimed and put a tracking dart into one of the tires.

*

Sherlock refused to acknowledge Mycroft’s existence on the way over. _John was hurt and it was all Mycroft’s fault._ He tried not to acknowledge that he felt guilty. _If I’d only been stronger, he would have taken me instead_. He was both horribly glad Jim had taken John instead, and guilty over it. He kept repeating “John is alive, he’s out, he’ll be alright, he’s stronger than I am” to himself. _Maybe I can start to believe it._

By the time they arrived at Q’s home, he was certain he looked calm. He was escorted to the door by one of Mycroft’s men who was standing there, gun ready. Sherlock wanted to punch him.

Q opened the door and curled his lip at the guard, then he looked at Sherlock. “YOU can come in.” He clearly bit back saying anything else until he’d let Sherlock in and closed the door.

“Is… IS John alright?”

“Mostly, I think he’s in a bit of shock.” Q looked at him with that look doctors gave you before the bad news. “Um… Sherlock, we never spoke much… How well do you understand… Jim’s been working him over; he’s mentally a bit shaky.”

“I think I have some idea.” Sherlock kept his voice level with effort.

“I’ve been there, but I suspect John put up a bit better fight. He seems… fragile. Please be careful with him.”

Sherlock remembered how “fragile” he’d been, after… after… He shivered, “I’ll try.”

Q walked him in. John was curled up on the sofa with the blankets pulled tightly around him; Sherlock recognized the posture.

~

“Hello, John.” Sherlock fidgeted slightly, not being certain whether to touch him or not.

John looked up at him and opened his mouth, then shut it again. He stared at Sherlock’s hands. “Stimming…” he said thoughtfully.

“What?” Sherlock went still.

Q’s head tracked over, “Oh? Is that it? That makes sense, I sort of wondered.”

Sherlock looked dubiously at both of them.

“Tea,” Q said firmly.

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock nodded–then thought about floral scents and shivered, “Black, please, not… scented.”

 _Sensory issues, Moriarty had said,_ John thought suddenly. _He’d sent Sherlock a trigger…_ He wondered if it had to do with tea, or flowers.

John put down his empty tea cup. “Can you switch mine out too?” He glanced at Sherlock, “It had been Earl Grey.”

Sherlock twitched.

Q came back and set down a pot. “Let it steep a bit.” He took John’s cup away. “I have sweets; I also have cheese and some fruit. Would you like anything?”

“I’m rather sick of fruit,” John said tiredly. “Cheese, thank you.”

“Are you alright, John?” Sherlock was looking at him worriedly.

“No, no, I will never be alright again, ever.”

Q came back in with a cheese tray and fresh tea cups.

Sherlock reached out hesitantly and touched John’s fingers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know… It’s all Mycroft’s fault.”

“Yes, yes, it is,” Q said firmly.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. “Yes?” He frowned, “Yes, he’s here, he’ll need to go to hospital–”

“No,” John shook his head firmly.

Sherlock looked at him, “John, you need–”

“I wanted to take YOU to hospital after the hotel.”

Sherlock’s hand shook. He said into the phone, “Right, we’ll go back to John’s house. Give me a few minutes.”

*

Outside in the car, listening to the bugs in Q’s house, Moran called and directed people to stand by between there and Doctor Watson’s house, and set the charges between the Watson’s and Mycroft’s office. He pulled away and took up station someplace well out of the sweep range.

Moran grinned, “The system works…”

*

Q said quietly, after a minute, “John, you still have a collar on.”

His hand went into the blankets. “Oh… Yes, I do.”

“Can… Can you let me have a look at it? It may be trapped.”

John’s eyes widened; Sherlock hissed.

Q came over and carefully started pulling blankets back away from John’s head and neck.

“Did you have any prior experience with collars,” Q asked quietly. _If he did, taking it off abruptly will be a shock; mind you, wearing it would have psychology issues…._

“No, why would I?”

Sherlock said vaguely, “Well, Q here is a submissive: I expect he’s worn them a lot.”

Q sputtered, “Yes, well, thanks a lot.” He grumbled into the back of John’s neck as he looked at the padlock, “He sounds like Jim.”

John said quietly, “I don’t think he sounds like Moriarty at all. Can you get it off?”

“It’s not trapped, just padlocked. I have bolt cutters.”

“No need,” Sherlock said brightly, pulling out his lock picks. “Head back, John.”

Sherlock had the lock open in moments, and carefully pulled the collar loose. “There. Are you wearing anything else from him? We should get it off you.”

“I don’t think any of my things will fit, but I have a pair of James’ sweat pants…” Q said dubiously.

“He knows where I live, Sherlock, he threatened my family unless I cooperated.” John said tiredly, “I don’t think a tracer is my highest concern right now.”

Sherlock flinched.

Q nodded, “Return the blankets when you can. I think you need to get home.”

Q showed them both out–they left leaning into each other–and came back to start cleaning up. He jumped when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Q darling,” Jim’s voice purred on the phone. “It’s time for you to be helpful.”

 _Of course, anything… No, that’s a bad reaction._ “I… I don’t think…”

“It’s just Mycroft, darling; he’s a traitor, and he almost got all of us killed.”

Q’s hand clenched over the phone. “JUST him?”

“His driver and a few other people may be hurt, Q, but I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.”

Q heard music playing in the background. “Don’t, don’t do that, Jim. I’ll help you, but… only if I can be awake. I need to know what I’m doing. I need to be able to decide.”

There was a pause, then the music stopped and it was just Jim’s approving voice, “Such a treasure you are. Alright, Q, I need you to re-route a few cameras, and change a few streetlights.”

“That’s it?”

“There will be a few accidents, and a few explosions, nothing serious.”

Q took a deep breath, “John, and Sherlock?”

“Get to stay out of it this time, darling. I don’t want to upset you.”

Q nodded, “All right, I’ll have the system under control in ten minutes or less.”

*

Jim turned to Bond, “Now then, where were we? Nothing like a little violence and kidnapping to set the mood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are golden!   
> (every time i don't think differentiate my fics enough i just try to switch between this one and Odyssey and DAYUM , okay... they're different. the switch in writing them makes my head hurt.)


	13. All your life is Channel 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond's POV after the phone call to Q (and the last chapter or two)  
> I couldn't resist using that line from the song Pressure as the chapter heading....

After they’d hung up from the phone call arranging the failsafe, Bond turned on Jim, “You got bugs BACK into his house? How?!”

Jim giggled. “That would be telling.”

“I want you to stay away from him.”

“Tsk…” Jim wandered up to Bond. “You sold yourself for a day, my beautiful, brilliant beast: you just get to lie back and enjoy the show.”

“You’re a bad habit,” Bond growled.

“The worst,” agreed Jim. “Now I have to get ready to return John, and I need to give some instructions to Sebastian–THEN we can get started.”

Bond followed him as he got out a syringe. John was brought in by Moran; he was wearing what looked like pajamas and clutching them rather desperately.

“Now you get another shot,” Jim smiled.

“No… Please…” John looked like his world shattered as he looked at it.

Bond looked at it thoughtfully, “Addictive?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, not at all, it’s a memory blocker.” Jim turned to John, “Nothing to worry about, Johnny boy, I just don’t want you telling anyone where we are now–after I had to move you, we went someplace I care about. You’ll get the antagonist from Moran once you get to Q’s.”

John took a deep, shaky breath. He held out his hand and gave himself a practiced shot. Bond watched this all with increasing edginess. This was walking a very fine line between business and personal, and he didn’t like it.

Jim took the syringe back and started counting. Moran got a firmer grip on John. John’s face went soft and sort of blank.

“Put him down on the sofa for a minute, Sebie.”

Moran nodded. After he put him down, he came back and stood at attention, watching Jim with intent eyes.

Bond had the distinct feeling he’d missed something.

Jim pulled another syringe out of his pocket. “James, roll up your sleeve.”

“Why?” _This was absolutely NOT a good sign._

“Because I said to,” Jim smiled, “and you said you would.”

Bond looked down and rolled up his sleeve. “If you break your side of this…”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, James darling–it would mean ending our games, and I wouldn’t want that.” Jim gave him a very expert shot. “Sebie, take James to my room and get him comfortable, then come right back–we have a lot of work.”

By the time Bond was shown into a very elegant, dark room with far too many restraint points, he was having trouble staying on his feet.

“Any idea what he gave me?”

“No clue.”

“Any idea what he’s doing now? Other than the obvious?” Bond was feeling very spacey and disconnected. Moran expertly restrained him to the bed, setting pillows up behind him. Bond idly noticed that there was a large screen on the wall. “I doubt we’re watching movies.” Bond felt his breathing slowing; it was getting very hard to even think.

“Well,” Moran said, putting the keys on a hook by the door, “I expect I’m going to get Sherlock.”

“He said…”

“He SAID we have a system–he never said we weren’t using it. Bond,” he nodded as he left the room.

Bond faded in and out a bit, but his head had cleared slightly by the time Jim walked in.

“So all I did was move up the timetable?” Bond asked, still feeling rather disconnected.

“Oh, no, James. We changed plans.”

Bond blinked. “Oh?” Then he frowned, “HOW did you change plans?”

“I decided you were right, darling: cut out the middleman. Besides, Sherlock is still fragile, and I kind of like him. But Mycroft will be there… we’ll go right to picking him up.”

“Oh.” Bond relaxed. “That’s alright, then.”

Jim stilled… “Is it?”

“He’s a traitor: have him on a leash at your next party, for all I care.” Bond looked thoughtfully at Jim, “As long as none of the secrets in his head get to anyone on the other side, I don’t care what you do with him.”

Jim’s face lit up: he looked twelve. “I’m sorry I doubted you, James. I thought you would fuss.” He climbed on the bed and kissed him. “I adore you.”

Bond closed his eyes for a minute; when he opened them, Jim was in his boxers and undershirt. _Lost time, then._ His head felt clearer, though.

Jim had been doing something off to one side. “Oh, you’re awake? Sorry, darling, but I’ll need to gag you.”

Bond stared at him, “Why?”

“Because I do. Open up.”

Bond considered the limited motion, the drugs, and the fact that he’d pretty much signed on for this, and sighed. “If you blow past my limits because you ‘didn’t hear me safeword’, Jim…”

“NEVER! No, no, I swear, once we get to the fun part, I want to hear you scream anyway.” Jim held a hand over his chest.

“I believe that last part,” Bond grumbled as he opened his mouth.

Jim put in a VERY thorough gag, and then put a posture collar on him, which forced the gag further into his mouth. Bond glared at him. Jim picked up a remote, a microphone, and a speaker and set them by the side of the bed.

“That’s why you needed the gag, James: I’ll be on speaker.”

Jim sat back on the bed, leaning against Bond as though they were two lovers deciding what movie to watch.

He did something with the controls and the wall screen lit up. It was divided into several smaller screens.

Jim started casually playing with Bond–stroking, teasing, trailing his fingers idly–while he was on the phone to various minions, an ambulance crew, and apparently three unrelated criminal enterprises. He was switching between them with a speed and ease that made Bond’s head spin, and not one bit of it distracted Jim from his continued teasing. Bond was about ready to bite through the gag and gnaw his arm off.

Bond had no choice but to sit through watching the entire discussion with Q in his house, and _YES, dammit, the camera and microphone pickups were excellent._

When Q and Moran openly discussed Q belonging to them both, Bond groaned. _This was really a bad idea._ Unfortunately, his dick thought it was inspirational, not that he needed much help with Jim… petting… at him. _Bastard._ Bond started plotting payback again.

 _What do you mean, you have VIDEO of that?!_ He glared at Jim, who was just smirking. Jim snickered as Moran negotiated for a copy.

“I would have given him mine, if I had known it was worth that much, but it’s SO much better to cement a good relationship between the employees, don’t you think?” Jim asked Bond, smiling cheerfully. _I’m going to make him EAT this gag._

When Sebastian went out, Jim told him that one of the arriving cars probably had Mycroft in it. “He won’t be letting Sherlock out of his sight, because he’s afraid he’ll be lured out. Just get a tracer into that car, dear.”

Bond watched as Moran put a tracker on the car, and then listened as they gave Jim their itinerary. He had to admit he was right: _Their system worked, Dammit_. Moran started moving people into position. _They were clearly going to intercept cars, but… it didn’t sound like they were planning the intercept for the entire group._ Bond tried to make questioning noises at Jim.

“Just a moment, James,” Jim smiled and a phone rang.

“Hello?” Bond’s eyes widened as he saw Q pick up the phone and answer.

“Q, darling,” Jim purred into the microphone, his hand dancing over Bond’s stomach. “It’s time for you to be helpful.”

Bond glared death at Jim.

“I… I don’t think …” _If I get out of here_ , _I am SO going to cut his throat. This was a stupid stupid idea._

“It’s just Mycroft, darling, he’s a traitor, and he almost got all of us killed.” _True._

Q’s hand clenched over the phone. “JUST him?”

“His driver and a few other people may be hurt, Q, but I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.”

Bond tried one more time to get loose as Jim started some Irish music playing. He watched Q soften and then, unexpectedly, shake it off. _That’s my Q._

“Don’t, don’t do that Jim. I’ll help you, but… only if I can be awake. I need to know what I’m doing. I need to be able to decide.” _Q was better off than I thought, but clearly not great._

Jim stopped playing with Bond and his hand paused over the remote. He turned off the music. Bond sagged in the restraints.

“Such a treasure you are. Alright, Q, I need you to re-route a few cameras, and change a few streetlights.” _The WHAT? Wait, could Q do that?_

“That’s it?” _What the hell do you mean “That’s IT?” you insufferable…_

“There will be a few accidents, and a few explosions, nothing serious.” _If Q could actually reroute the London cameras and lights…_ Bond’s mind spun crazily as he imagined just how devastating that could be in enemy hands, and just how USEFUL if he could use it. _And Mycroft almost gave him to the Russians._

“John and Sherlock?”

“Get to stay out of it this time, darling. I don’t want to upset you.” _Well, no, not if Q could do that, and get fake Russian ID, and knew every damned hacker on the planet. Q was clearly the most valuable piece on the board–and had been for ages–and they hadn’t seen it. DAMN._

Q nodded, “All right, I’ll have the system under control in ten minutes or less.” _Ten minutes_. Bond sighed and lay back. Jim cut the call and watched Q’s dark head bend down over a laptop.

Jim turned to Bond, “Now then, where were we? Nothing like a little violence and kidnapping to set the mood.”

Jim held up a cock ring; Bond developed a VERY bad feeling about the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are treasures!


	14. Accidents and Bad Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft up to the * then smut * and a bit of plot.  
> BDSM and the edges of PTSD triggers....

Mycroft had the horrifying feeling that he was missing something. He had an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t shake. Jim was going to try for Sherlock, and this time… he simply couldn’t permit it.

When Sherlock came out with John– _tortured, raped, drugged, well into conditioning, and very confused_ –Mycroft began to think that Bond had actually managed it.

 _Jim really must love him, as much as he loves anyone_. Mycroft strangled the jealousy back down. Jim changed plans on a whim, after all; it didn’t mean anything. He resolutely ignored his mind palace Jim snickering in the background.

Mycroft ordered a two block cordon of eyes on Doctor Watson’s home.

After Sherlock escorted John inside– _Jim appeared to have perfected a lot of his brainwashing techniques: he was insanely badly off for less than a week–_ Mycroft ordered his driver to return to the office.

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft was once again tidying his mental office when some part of his attention noticed something was amiss. “Evasive actions.”

“Sir?” Anthea turned to look at him and the driver turned the car at the intersection before Mycroft could answer. Unfortunately, the explosion had been set in that direction and Mycroft’s car, armor plating and all, flipped into the air and landed with a crunch.

Mycroft came to, in pain– _broken leg, probable broken arm, concussion_ –in the wreckage, as police were cordoning the area off, and rescue crews were extracting people. He saw Anthea, bloodied but alive, being loaded into an ambulance.

He blinked and he was in an ambulance. _Concussion, definitely._ The medic was looking professional over a panicked undertone, clearly concerned about him. “Sir, do you know today’s date?” They were running an IV.

Mycroft told him–he also told him his name, and who the Prime Minister was, without being asked. The medic looked relieved. “You’ve had a bad hit, Sir, but–”

“Broken leg, at least two places; broken arm; concussion. I’ll be alright. Call the emergency contact on my phone, or the wallet card.”

“Yes, sir, right away.” _He was LYING? Why?_

Mycroft struggled to sit up, but the other medic had already spiked the IV line and he went down into the dark.

*

Bond distantly saw the explosion on one of the screens. Some part of his mind noted with amusement that if this had been a movie it would have gone off as he came, not when Jim was just playing. Jim swallowed around him and he once again tried to arch up into him. Jim just pulled his head back and laughed down at him.

“Impatient, aren’t you?”

“So?” Bond growled at him, grateful for the lack of a gag, “Stop teasing!”

Jim licked delicately at Bond as though his dick was an ice cream. “One day, twenty-four hours–plus just a bit–” His tongue traced a path down Bond’s shaft to the cock ring and back up. “You’ll have to develop a bit of patience.”

“I have plenty of patience–” Bond cut off with a bitten back curse as Jim swallowed him whole again.

“Oh…” Jim said casually as the bastard stopped, and propped himself up on an elbow, “I do appreciate this, really. I was looking for a good excuse to keep Sherlock out of it, and John really IS much more my type, you were quite right.”

Bond stared at him. _Fine, he wants to try to have a conversation? Fine, uses up more time, I suppose…_ “I did try to tell you that.”

Jim moved up and spoke quietly into Bond’s ear, “What I didn’t know was just how MUCH he had in common with my Sebastian, really, and he’s much smarter than I thought. I was underestimating him.”

“You said that, I–” Bond stuttered to a stop as Jim did something with his tongue behind Bond’s ear. _How the HELL was that so hot?_

“Yes?” Jim was murmuring very quietly, his breath just barely moving Bond’s hair. “What was I saying?”

“That. You. Underestimated. Him.” Bond forced himself to enunciate every word as Jim started nipping gently at Bond’s ear. “Why don’t you go back to–”

“Back?” Jim reached a hand down and started lazily stroking Bond’s shaft very, very slowly. Bond became excruciatingly aware of the cock ring again.

“YOU are a goddamned bastard!”

Bond could feel Jim smile against the soft skin behind his ear, “Believe it or not, my parents were married.” Jim’s tongue started doing things that Bond couldn’t quite decide if he loved or hated.

“Stop that!”

“No.” Jim smirked and pressed himself up against Bond’s side. “We discussed your limits and I haven’t gone aaaaaaanywhere near them.”

“Great, I’m in bed with a rules lawyer!”

“If you didn’t know that, darling…” Jim chuckled and somehow the vibrations went right through Bond’s ear into his dick.

Just as Bond was about to say something, Jim leaned over and kissed him. Bond kissed back and there was a momentary tangle of tongue and teeth which got derailed somehow as Jim started stroking him faster.

“Have you ever played with a cock ring darling?”

“No.” Bond was beginning to develop a hatred of the things.

“Oh, myyyy, you’re in for a TREAT, then.”

“It doesn’t feel much like one.”

“Well, it’s a treat for me….”

“Fuck you,” Bond said with fervor.

“If you insist,” Jim smirked. “I was waiting for you to offer.”

Bond was trying to figure out what he meant when Jim got out a bottle of lube. He was getting rather enthused about the prospect, despite the restraints, when he realized exactly what having that damned thing on meant…

Jim laughed down at him, “Just figure it out? Oh, you haven’t played sub much.”

“The last time I was put in down position–before you–it involved a cattle prod and a whip; I wasn’t eager to repeat it.”

“Cattle prods are no fun,” Jim said as he slid a slick hand over Bond, liberally coating him. “But truly, violet wands can be.”

“Electricity was one of my hard limits,” Bond growled, and then Jim lifted himself up and started pushing down onto him, using his hand to guide Bond into place. Jim was clearly practiced at this as, even with Bond unable to move, he had no difficulty.

“Done… this… much?” Bond gasped as Jim settled down on top of him.

Jim cocked his head slightly, “At least every few weeks with Sebastian–this position, I mean.” Then he rolled his hips in a way that would be the envy of professional belly dancers and Bond stopped thinking.

“Ah, that did it.” Jim laughed as he rolled his hips again, this time while lifting himself slightly up on his knees.

All Bond could do was lie there and take it, watching as Jim moved himself in a fashion that reminded Bond of the best elements of having sex on a boat. He rolled his hips with every stroke and… _I would have come a few times by now if I could have._

Jim finally shuddered and lost his rhythm, flushing from groin to chest, and coming silently with his head turned aside. By the time he turned his head back to look down at Bond he had an amused look on his face. “You keep moving your hands as if you could touch something,” Jim said, and then arched his back and rolled his shoulders. Bond felt the motions rippling muscles in Jim’s body and he strangled a cry.

“A bit oversensitized?”

Bond forced himself to take a deep breath. “Yeah… a bit…”

“Still coherent? Damn,” he smirked, “I knew you were going to be a challenge.”

“I’m usually on top… and I’ve never been this…” Bond tried to think of a word for the level of torment and frustration he was feeling.

Jim leaned forward and lay down on top of Bond’s chest; Bond almost screamed as he moved inside Jim. “So…” Jim purred down at him, “Since this is your first experience with a cock ring, I rather thought I should take it easy on you…” He reached down between them; Bond felt fingers touching him and tugging painfully on the ring. Jim leaned down and kissed him… Bond was barely able to breathe, and in pain, and cursing himself for EVER agreeing to this, when Jim pulled the cock ring free.

*

Bond was slowly drifting up, voices were raised… Bond snapped awake and reflexively tried to roll for a weapon, only to find he couldn’t move.

“It’s alright… Easy…!” A voice sing-songed at him and a weight on his chest focused his senses.

Jim was leaning across him. Sebastian was standing in the doorway looking uncomfortable.

“What…?” Bond shook his head and blinked a few times. “Oh.”

“Sorry, James, I should have thought you would come up hard… Oh, I didn’t even mean it that way, but you did…” Jim smirked.

“I don’t wake up in restraints often without it being a problem.” Bond rasped a bit: his mouth was dry as hell.

“I’m afraid that an emergency has come up, James. I have to go tend to it, I’ll be back soon.”

“You are NOT leaving me here like this.”

Jim blinked at him, “Well, yes, I am.”

“NO, you damned well are not.” Bond took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “Jim, seriously, leaving me tied down when I didn’t set up the security? I didn’t put that as a hard limit because it never occurred to me you would do it.”

Jim was blinking down at him when Sebastian spoke up from the doorway, “Sir? Would you do that to me?”

Jim looked over his shoulder at Sebastian and frowned, “No.”

Sebastian was just looking at Jim. Bond tried to stay calm and stop yanking at the cuffs. Jim looked back at him and sighed.

“If I let you up, you have to PROMISE me you’ll let me put you back down… We’re nowhere near the time limit!”

Bond breathed a sigh of relief, “Obviously. Look, Jim, I let you give me a shot, I let you gag me, I’m not going to bolt… but if you leave me like–”

Jim held up a hand. “You two are quite right. I just got worried that you’d back out… Keys?” he said at Sebastian. Sebastian walked over and helped unlock Bond. He forced himself not too move too quickly, his instincts screaming at him to take them both down and run.

“I have to get dressed.” Jim climbed onto Bond and kissed him, hard. Bond started to roll him over on the bed, desperate to regain some measure of control, but Sebastian coughed slightly, reminding him that there was a rather heavily armed presence.

Jim slipped away toward the bathroom. “Get dressed if you want to come along.” And the door closed.

Sebastian shook his head, “You are one lucky son of a bitch, but that was a stupid deal.”

“I knew that, yeah.” Bond sat up and caught the clothes Sebastian tossed him. “I took it anyhow. I’m stupid that way.”

“Don’t feel too bad: I would have too, and I know better.”

“So what’s the emergency?”

“We caught Mycroft–actually got him.”

“That’s a problem? Isn’t that what you wanted?’

“He needs surgery, the car turned into the blast, not away. Boss has to oversee that.”

Bond thought about all the secrets in Mycroft Holmes’ head, and anesthesia, and cursed. He pulled on the clothes as fast as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posted early because i have plans for Sunday!


	15. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets home

Sherlock helped John into his house. Mary spun to face them, gun in hand…

“John? Sherlock?” She was staring at them as if she’d seen a ghost.

“Hullo, Mary… I’m home,” John said weakly.

Sherlock was steering him to a chair. Mary finally put the gun away. “No one CALLED; no one said you were rescued–what happened?”

Sherlock fidgeted, “You should eat.”

Mary suddenly snapped out of her shock. “Oh... Oh, my god, yes… Are you– Did you eat? Are you hurt? Why aren’t you in the hospital?” she said as she ran into the kitchen and started making food.

“I’m not sure what a doctor could do,” John said quietly.

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully. “You have bruises that looked like cattle prods, only without any surface scorching.”

“Yes, thank you, Sherlock.” John closed his eyes. “Moriarty said it was electricity.”

“What?” Mary was bringing in a pile of sandwich makings, and a vegetable and dip. “Soups heating up… What was electricity?”

“I was tortured,” John said slowly. “Moriarty said it was electricity, I think.”

Sherlock frowned. “Wouldn’t you know?”

“No. I had to give myself memory blockers every time.”

Mary looked utterly bewildered. Sherlock’s frown deepened. “Memory blockers?”

John told him the drug name and dose.

“That... makes no sense­–” Mary started to say, then heard the microwave beep and said, “Hold on”. Sherlock was standing, looking off into the distance for a bit. Mary came back with soup. John took it very gratefully.

“Why would anyone give you… I don’t understand?” Mary looked back and forth.

“The last one was so I couldn’t tell you where I had been. We… I’d been moved. The last place was someplace secret, I guess. He didn’t care about the first place: I know where that was.”

“He gave you memory blocking drugs, and then tortured you?” Sherlock said slowly.

“Yes, among… other things. Can we not talk about it? Especially since we have to move.”

“What?”

“Apparently the nursery is just the right location for a grenade launcher.”

Sherlock winced. “I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock gave him that wounded puppy dog look, the one that meant he was about to say something about how it should have been him.

“It should not, Sherlock‑“

“It is not!” Mary said firmly.

“Well no,” John said tiredly, “it should have been MYCROFT, apparently. I’m not sure what happened, but Mycroft did something that triggered this, apparently tried to kill‑“

“It is not, John,” Mary insisted.

“What?” Sherlock and John both said together.

“The nursery. It’s a terrible spot for a grenade launcher. The angle of throw is impossible.” Mary was frowning at him.

“What?”

Mary sighed, and sat down. “I have no idea what he told you, John, but the nursery is the single most secure room in the house. In order to get anything in the window, you would have to first break the window, and then hand throw something inside, assuming you can manage it from the roof or the floor directly under the…” She looked back and forth. “What?”

Sherlock was smirking. John started laughing and then couldn’t stop; eventually, he was lying over Sherlock just gasping.

Mary had a hand over her mouth and looked embarrassed. “Sorry,” she said finally.

“No… No… Thank you.” John took the offered napkin and wiped tears out of his eyes. “Thank you.”

Sherlock sat down with a sigh. “Of course, he would have used threats.”

“It was the most damnably surreal, insane experience of my life.” John said shaking his head. “He wanted me to do BOOK reports, for God’s sake–to earn clothes.”

“To what?”

“I… got stripped. I spent the first… I dunno… while? Naked. It was like one of those nightmares where you show up to a fancy dinner naked.”

Mary stared at him, “And he wanted book reports?”

“Yeah. Asexuality spectrum, and then Autism.” He glanced at Sherlock. “He seemed to think they were about you.”

“Probably.” Sherlock shrugged as though it didn’t matter.

John just blinked at him.

“But why would he want you to do book reports on that? Why book reports at all?” Sherlock mused.

“I would REALLY like some clothes. Really,” John said firmly.

Mary looked at him with an odd expression. “Would it be better if I helped or Sherlock.”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

Mary looked at Sherlock. “Go help him get dressed.” She walked up to John as he stood up, and put her hands on both sides of his face. “John. It’s ok. You do what you have to, to survive. If that means not fighting back, that’s ok too.”

John almost melted on to her. Sherlock of course looked hideously uncomfortable, but nodded.

“Oddly enough, I did some damage; even weirder was, he didn’t care.”

“What?”

“Some of his people apparently got pretty angry, but… I decked him. I don’t remember it: I was having a complete breakdown. He’s going to be fairly identifiable for at least a week, I think.”

“You hit him?” Mary blinked a lot, “And he didn’t…” She looked him up and down.

“That seems odd,” Sherlock said.

“Apparently, he doesn’t hold PTSD attacks accountable. He was… rather specific… about that being different than my voluntarily hitting him.” John took a deep breath. “Some of his people got, as he put it, a bit ‘enthusiastic’ over torturing me that night, and he got angry at them… I think.”

“John, I really think you need a doctor,” Mary said worriedly, looking at him.

“Probably. I need an STD test, at least.”

Sherlock twitched. Mary just nodded. “John… There’s a clinic in London. They have people who have training in rape and–”

“And I can’t remember half of it, and I can’t press charges for the rest of it.” He sighed, “But I for damn sure am glad Mycroft had enough sense to not come in, because I would kill him.”

A few minutes later, when John was putting the pajamas and the underwear in a bag for evidence–or to burn, or something–he looked at Sherlock. “Several people seem to be of the opinion that Mycroft was dating Moriarty.”

“I don’t know. They apparently had some kind of a relationship.” Sherlock said, sounding very tired. “Mycroft apparently tried to hurt Agent Bond‑“

 _BAD!_ John collapsed shaking.

“John? John?” Sherlock’s voice. John pulled himself together, slowly.

“I’m okay… just... It’s been a long day.”

“Let’s get you to bed.”

 _Bed–pain-memories_ –“NO!” John was breathing hard staring at the bed like it was going to eat him.

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Sofa? Is a sofa safer?”

“Sorry. Sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry…”

Sherlock simply helped him up and took him back down to the sofa.

“Mary, beds seem to be associated with being hurt; can you help me make him a spot on the sofa?”

John fell asleep with Sherlock on one side of him, working on a case file or something; Mary laying across him on the other side, with her head on his shoulder; and their daughter sleeping in a carriage just a few feet away.

_Just keep Sherlock out of it, and let Mycroft go to hell on his own, and I would hopefully never have to see Moriarty ever again…._


	16. Gone and back again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the characters went off in a direction i was not anticipating. sorry/not sorry?  
> Three's a crowd... and fun.  
> changing tags now... bear with me

Mycroft had been brought in sedated.  A quick glance told Bond the break on his leg was severe, his arm appeared less injured.  A doctor was looking at X-rays, and the other doctor-the same one Bond had spoken with for Q– was frowning at a notebook computer.

“Status?” Jim asked casually, as if this was a normal occurrence–maybe it was.

They started talking drugs, medication, injuries. Bond didn’t follow all of it but the basics were clear, they needed to go into surgery to set the leg.

Jim rattled off his medical reactions and history, including things that must have been since they broke up, and made suggestions for anesthetic.

“Implant four, and give him a low dose of formula seven in his post-operative IV.”

The doctors just nodded, so it obviously made sense to them, and then Jim, Sebastian, and Bond went out to a very comfortable waiting area, with a live feed to surgery.

Jim was trying to act calm, and increasingly failing.

“What’s implant four and formula seven?” Bond asked, more for trying to get him to calm down than expecting an answer.

“Implant four is an improved tracker, like they tried to foist onto the double O program a few years back, except more advanced, and formula seven is a custom hypnotic and a bit of a mood leveler, Mycroft hides it well but he has PTSD.” Jim answered in distracted fashion.

“Q told you about the trackers?” Bond frowned, “I had mine removed without consent, or anesthetic, when I was captured…”

“Hmm? Oh no, no, Q rarely if ever talks about work–except under  drugs I mean– I have people in government, much easier to get the information that way.” Jim was watching the video feed and continued, apparently without thinking about it, “The fact that your tracker was found so quickly, and several other agents died from the tracers being used to locate them, is why the program was discontinued, but the agency that developed them continued to work on it for other people…

“They’re marketing an implanted tracker now to the military and prison complex for various reasons that may or may not be struck down in the courts, and Mycroft wanted to implant one in me when I was questioned, but was overruled. Version four was made to my specifications and is not for sale to anyone else.  It’s very hard to detect, and implanted in the leg bone will be very difficult to remove.” Jim sounded… _vague, that was the only word for it._

Bond glanced at Sebastian, and noted that the man was looking very edgy. His stance was shifting, _more protective?_ Bond kept his hands in sight.

“Sir?” Sebastian said it cautiously, “The doctor’s know what they’re doing, may I suggest you take a break?”

Bond watched from behind lidded eyes as he got a cup of coffee, Jim didn’t react very quickly…

“I should be alright, Sebie.” Jim’s voice sounded even more distant, softer, more accented.

“Have you had enough sleep?” Bond asked, keeping his voice measured, and neutral. Sebastian glanced at him warily.

There was a noticeable pause before he replied. “Most people sleep too much.”

“When’s the last time he got any sleep?” Bond asked Sebastian directly.  Sebastian looked very uncomfortable and shrugged.

“This is going to get added to my bill, I just know it.” Bond muttered.  He all but telegraphed his move to Moran as he put down his coffee and moved up and took Jim’s arm.  Sebastian winced, but moved up and took the other one.

“You need to get some sleep, Sir; Mycroft will be out for hours…” Sebastian said with a resigned tone.

Jim momentarily looked panicked at having his arms held, Bond shifted to hold him around the waist, just “incidentally” pinning that arm as well. Jim was acting like he was extremely sleep deprived, coming down off of drugs, or both, but Bond remembered the quiet panic attack in the bedroom and how much being held had helped.

“Jim…It’s Bond–James– and you were safe enough with me and Q…” He kept his voice level, and watched carefully.  Jim looked up at Moran worriedly.

“Sir? Come on; let me get you to bed… Bond’s alright, isn’t he?”

Jim sighed, closed his eyes, and it was as if a light went off.  The force of personality that Jim filled a room with was gone, and there was just some ordinary looking fellow in their arms, who opened his eyes blankly and didn’t look at anything.

~

“Fuck.” Sebastian said quietly. “He’s never gone down in front of anyone else… anyone who was going to survive anyway.”

He started steering Bond and Jim out of the room, “Look, can you steer him? I have to make sure the hallway’s cleared.”

Bond was looking a bit surprised, but keeping his head, so that was something. “Is he likely to come up swinging soon?”

“Not if nothing spooks him or threatens us.” He sighed, “Hang on.” He got a couple people out of the halls just by hissing “he’s in a MOOD again,” at them. They scattered. A quick glance back showed that Bond was just walking casually with Jim, one arm around Jim’s waist.  As long as no one noticed the blank look on Jim’s face they should be fine.

They got back to the bedroom without incident, although there were a few close calls.  At least once Bond simply put Jim behind him and leaned against the wall, glowering, until the potential witnesses moved quickly away.

“You act like you’ve dealt with this before?” Sebastian asked him, after the bedroom door closed behind him.

“I don’t know if it’s the same, but a couple of the other agents  blank out from PTSD or  something, they usually come up with knives or guns, though, which is why I asked…” Bond shrugged, “and I’ve had to get people out who were drugged.”

“Luckily he trusts you enough to let you walk him around.” Sebastian choked back the jealousy.

Bond blinked a lot. “I have no idea what to say to that.  Anyway, should we try to get him undressed?”

“Not on a bet.” Sebastian remembered how badly that could go and shuddered. “Most of the time he’ll just let you, but sometimes he will come up swinging. Just get his shoes and belt, I’ll get his pockets.  I usually leave his ankle holster on him…”

Sebastian had to admit it was easier when you had two people. They got him into bed; Bond stripped down similarly and lay down next to Jim, then looked thoughtfully up at him.

“He did well with me blocking and Q hugging him, I suggest you take one side and I take the other until he comes back up.”

“He did this?”

“No, he had a nightmare or something.” Bond shrugged, “I don’t know anyone but civilians who don’t.”

“If you make one crack about lying back and thinking–”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Bond put his arms under his head and closed his eyes.  Sebastian pulled Jim into his chest and wrapped an arm around him.

*

Jim was deliciously warm.

His back had comfortable pressure against it and was almost too warm, and he was curled up into a very broad, warm chest…

Without opening his eyes he started running an assessment.  The chest belonged to Sebastian, he was certain, but behind him?

James Bond’s familiar voice rumbled against his back, “You’re awake, you’re in your bed– or the one I was in anyway and since your clothes are in here I assume it’s yours– and Mycroft is in recovery–it went well.”

“Sir? You’re awake?” Sebastian’s voice sounded sleep rough.

Jim decided he liked the way they both rumbled against him. “James, did anyone ever tell you that you were an oven?”

Sebastian made a confused and worried noise, but James just laughed, “Frequently. Luckily Q is apparently part lizard.”

“So am I.” Jim stretched, doing his best to hit the right spots on both men.  Sebastian made a sort of strangled noise, so he expected it worked. “If I’m going to wake up in bed with two of my favorite killers, I expect something to come of it.”

“Neither of us was certain what mood you’d be in when you woke up, Sir.” Sebastian relaxed just slightly.

“I’m aggravated. You two can make it up to me by taking my mind off it: otherwise I might keep thinking about being aggravated.” Sebastian was shooting vaguely panicky looks over his head at James, which somewhat amused Jim. He WAS aggravated, and doing his best not to think about what had happened or the fact that his blasted subconscious had apparently declared James “safe”.

“One of my hard limits was other people.” James said immediately.

“For subbing,” amended Jim immediately. “One of your hard limits was being shared or having anyone else involved when you were restrained or down.  You aren’t.”

“So, not down… just both of us in bed?”

“That is what I said, why?” Jim rolled over and raised an eyebrow at him. James had his closed face on, which made him damned hard to read.

James looked over at Sebastian. “Green, yellow, red work for everyone?”

Sebastian just shrugged, “I’m familiar with the idea.”

James just shook his head faintly. “I hope you know what you’re getting into, Jim.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Jim shot them both a grin, and he saw Sebastian looking interested despite himself.

“Not my fault if you have regrets later,” James practically growled as he tried to pin Jim down.

“Life’s too short for regrets, James darling,” Jim took advantage of his smaller size and better leverage and flipped James into Sebastian.

It was practically a melee after that. Jim kept playing the two of them off against each other as both of them couldn’t STAND the idea of the other one beating them.  James wanted to top, obviously, and Sebastian was only willing to sub to Jim, not James. Every now and then it got  bit TOO much like melee, and he’d have to  let one or the other of them “catch” him, before distracting them or slipping out from under them.

After a while, when they both seemed to have worked off some of their aggressions, the bed was a disaster area, and he was pretty certain they were all going to be bruised, he called a halt. “I think I’ll call that yellow, boys.” He said laughing.

“What are YOU safewording for?” James grumbled, rubbing his shoulder.

“Because you two are too proud to?” Jim smirked. “Now, let’s do things my way.”

Sebastian chuckled, “we always do.”

“Sebie knows how I like it.” Jim smirked down at Bond, “and all you have to do is lie there for now.”

“I’m not–”

Jim was certain he was about to say something ridiculous, like “I’m not subbing” so Jim kissed him and shut him up. He slid down James’ chest and stomach, nipping just a little until he got to where he was going.  Sebastian had gotten the lube and was starting to work with his fingers.

~

“I thought you weren’t subbing?” Bond asked, a bit breathlessly, as he watched Sebastian work Jim open, while Jim started exploring him with his tongue. He saw Sebastian look startled at him, and then amused.

“Oh, James…”  Jim grinned up at him with the most incredibly evil smirk.  “I’m not…”

And Jim went down on him, just this side of too much teeth, and his tongue was doing things that Bond had almost forgotten could be done. 

“Shit!” Bond muttered as Jim did something that felt wonderful–and was probably anatomically impossible– with his tongue. He saw Sebastian just shake his head and then Jim deep throated him when Sebastian pushed him forward.

Bond did his best to give back at least some, but Jim wasn’t kidding when he said he was in no way “subbing”.  Bond hadn’t known you could BE in the top position while being buggered and giving a blow job but Jim managed.

Eventually Jim simply moved up and fucked him while he was being fucked by Sebastian.  Bond felt like he really should have objected to something in here, but his brain had taken a short vacation with the blow job and was nodding along happily going, “Great idea!”

If Bond had any idea that this was going to change when  Jim switched positions– going down on Sebastian– it was proven wrong when Jim reminded him of just what he could do  with his hips.

 _If anyone ever claims that I’m using sex as a weapon, I’ll throw them at Jim and laugh!_  Was one of the few coherent thoughts that managed to make its way to the surface, before Jim leaned back and kissed Bond, before they ended up in another three way sandwich with Jim still in the middle.

And no… Bond might have been on top… but he definitely wasn’t “on top”.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be correcting typos and etc as i get to them, since my proofreader is ill.


	17. chess and a deck of cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but seriously, i have a question:  
> May contain poetry, Alice in wonderland and Alice through the looking glass references, pulling yourself together, memory, and more

Jim eventually booted them out, to “go shower”.   Sebastian sighed and took him to his rooms.

“Do I take it he wants us to get acquainted or something?” Bond asked somewhat slowly.  Most of his experiences with “get to know the other assassin after sex” ended in bloodshed.

“Either he’s giving us a chance to talk… or he wants us out of the way while he pulls himself together… or both.”

“Ah, that makes sense.”  Bond nodded, “He would be uncomfortable that he… I know there’s a word for it but dammed if I can remember it.”

“Dissociated.” Sebastian said flatly. “He doesn’t do it much, but when he does it’s usually associated with jealousy, rape, abuse, being hurt or a prisoner… or Mycroft.”

“And doesn’t that tell you a lot,” Bond winced.

Sebastian just nodded, “I can’t wait to get my hands on that bastard.  On top of everything he did before I ever met Jim, he then had him picked up and interrogated–enhanced interrogation. Jim refused to talk about it, mostly tried to laugh it off.”

“Mycroft, interrogated… his ex-boyfriend?” Bond blinked a lot– _I thought he hadn’t_. “Talk about unprofessional behavior, but I guess that’s why he expects people to blow past his safewords.”

“What?” Sebastian stopped as he was about to walk into the bathroom.

“Jim very literally told us–Q and myself– that he doesn’t expect anyone to listen to his safewords if he’s in the down position, and that’s at least part of the reason he’s terrible at safewords.  It’s why I have Q expecting me back at a specific time as a failsafe.”

“I wish I couldn’t say that makes sense, and honestly no, he doesn’t use them.”

“Whatever else went on with Mycroft, it’s a sure bet that he blew right through the word “no”, however phrased.”

“Jim doesn’t talk about it,” Sebastian shook his head, “and given how touchy he probably is right now, I don’t want to take chances on passing you information I shouldn’t, but based on what I have heard him say?  I think you can safely say blowing through a safeword would be considered cuddly.”

They got cleaned up and Sebastian suggested they make sure Jim actually ate something…

*

Jim stood in the shower letting the water beat down on him. _This used to be comforting_ ; he cursed Mycroft and his interrogators again.

Okay, try it again, WHAT happened?

He’d had no luck trying to build forward, he tried to go backward from now.

_I woke up in bed with Sebastian and James, with no context and next to no memory of how I got there, so of COURSE I reverted to sex as a control mechanism.  Now… how did I get there?_

Bits and pieces of things came back to him: John Watson, Sherlock, the smell of bubblegum and flowers.

“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe…” he started reciting Carrol and letting his mind blank.

~

In his library he started pulling books and notes down.  _Mycroft had been captured and was in surgery? Out of surgery and doing well at this point according to James._ He put the White King down in place. Sherlock was well enough to pick up John Watson: Watson had progressed from Pawn to Knight when he wasn’t paying attention–no, he’d always been a Knight, I’d just mislabeled him. Jim put the white Queen and the Knight in place.

James Bond had gone from Grey Knight, to Red, with a Black shield.  He’s not Mycroft’s, he’s M’s, but at the moment in play he’s Black… He put down the Red Knight on his side, and moved the Red Queen closer to his side than to White…

Slowly he built up the chess board again, Black and White squared off with Red in play, and the other colors circling around the edges of the field…

“Now where to put the Necromancer?”

~

“Jim?”

“He’s back out of it again.”

“He’s muttering…”

“He does that.”

“It’s Alice in Wonderland…”

“It usually is”

They were on the other side of the mirror talking–he slipped out.

~

“Problem, Sebastian?” He stretched his neck a bit and cracked his shoulders–he’s been sitting still for too long.

“No, Sir, we just wanted to be sure you got something to eat.”

James snorted, “That’s why we came back, to make sure you got something to eat.  If you’re going to keep going out of it like that, though, you need to keep someone nearby.”

“I was thinking,” he looked at James. “Apparently the alliances are shifting.”

“Probably, they do all the time.” He shrugged. “Any idea of when Mycroft is likely to be awake? And have you made any decisions about him? You put a tracker in him; I assume you’re planning on keeping him.”

“I haven’t made a firm decision, not yet, but I like to keep my options open. I’d rather have a tracker I never need to use, than need it and not have it.”

Sebastian nodded and looked at James, “Can you stay here? I’ll go get food.” James nodded and he left.

 “It’s nice to see you getting along.”

“We always got along we just have different jobs.” James shrugged, “he’s competent and has good aim.  I’d rather be on the same side with him than otherwise.”

“Sebastian’s a sweetheart,” Jim laughed, “You’re much harder.”

James just raised that eyebrow at him. He pulled a chair over and sat down. “I think we need to talk.”

“About?”

“How much do you even remember of the last day?”

Jim internally winced; he tried to keep his face neutral. “That’s an odd question, why do you ask?”

“The Double-O program recruits people, according to the psychologists, who are borderline sociopaths. According to M we recruit people who are willing to kill people on orders, and not going to be crippled by guilt, and she doesn’t give a good God Damn what label you put on them–”

“She’s Red,” Jim said idly, then in response to the questioning look from James, “I have color codes assigned to the major players, she’s the Red Queen.”

James nodded slowly, “Some of our people–Double O or otherwise – have other issues, whatever label you put on them. I’ve had a pile of them, from back when I used to play with the psych department: now I just avoid them.

“The thing is, the other countries have similar recruiting needs.  Some jobs call for crazed risk takers, some jobs call for basic workmanship, and some– usually the extraordinary ones, like us– call for people that just don’t function in ordinary society. As Q said, ‘super predators’.”

“Q is an utterly charming and adorable creature who hardly–”

“Whether you think of him that way or not, the Double Os, the Russian equivalents, the Americans… we’re NOT normal, we can’t be. That means some of us are not normal in ways that the psych boys like to put labels on.”

“And?”

“You blanked out. I could walk you around and you were vacant.  When you came to, you were acting differently.” James locked eyes with him, “I recognize sex as a distraction and sex as a weapon –God knows I use it enough– and you’re damn good, because I stopped thinking, but once I started thinking again I recognized it. I’ve seen this before in some of the other agents.”

 _Damn clever beast, that’s the problem with being attracted to brains_. Jim sighed, “Alright, fine. I have minimal recollection of how I ended up in bed with you two. I’ve reconstructed a lot of it from … call it my back up notes, that’s what I was doing when you two came in.”

“You know my limits.” James was saying very seriously as Sebastian walked in.

“I did ask!  You weren’t locked down…”

“Not what I meant.” James shook his head. He glanced questioningly at Sebastian.

“Sebie? James asked me how much I remembered.” Jim tacitly gave him permission to talk about it.

Sebastian relaxed some and sat down, “he usually puts it back together after a bit. My main concern is making sure he doesn’t kill anyone he needed while he’s putting his memories back together.”

James nodded. “Yeah, that was the problem that other agent had.  She tended to just assume a kill order until proven otherwise when she woke up, made for some tricky situations.”

Jim suddenly realized, and felt like kicking himself, “THAT’s why you were giving me ‘status reports’? Because you suspected I might not remember?”

James nodded. Sebastian looked impressed. “I’ll have to remember that,” he muttered.

James shrugged faintly, “lots of agents wake up a bit disoriented in any case and since most of us have a hair trigger, it’s always better to start the morning with that, but it was damn near critical with her.”

“Good to know.” Sebastian nodded, “is that why you mentioned your name? and Q?”

James nodded, “Yes. Now back to the point: Jim, you know my limits, and I need some answers before this goes one step further.”

“I must be missing something.” Jim frowned, “I hate missing things.  I don’t see what any of this has to do with your limits?”

“Given your issues, are you even CAPABLE of giving consent until you put your memories back together?”

Sebastian and Jim both stared at him.

*

Mycroft woke up.  He was, quite literally, feeling no pain.  _Morphine? No… something else, I’m calm, but not feeling doped, just… vaguely numb in every sense_. He opened his eyes.  He was NOT in a hospital.  It could have been a very expensive private hospital, Mycroft supposed, but there were too many things that read as “hastily moved” and “re-purposed”. He was in a bed–such as you would buy for a convalescent– restrained completely, although the arm and leg in casts would have hobbled him fairly well. 

He remembered a crash… _Jim, of course, Jim. It had been a trap, just not for Sherlock, for me, and I’d driven right into it.  The cameras will have picked it up; even his own men would be able to follow an ambulance, no need to involve his brother._ He hoped the others had been taken to a real hospital.

There was a large screen in front of the bed, tilted so he could see it… No HE was tilted up so he could see it. It was blank.  There was an obvious camera next to it– kind of Jim to let him KNOW he was being observed, although he would have presumed that. _Never trust it when Jim seems kind_ , he reminded himself.  Memories of happier days threatened to cloud his judgement, he slammed the files closed.

He was frankly shocked that his broken bones appeared to have been professionally set.  He wiggled his fingers carefully– he didn’t actually feel any pain, but a queasy unsettled feeling told him it was a bad idea, the fingers moved well, though. _He could have crippled me; he didn’t, why_?

The monitors beeped faintly, a pump hummed, shortly afterwards he drifted off again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my main webpage, which hosts my main email, on which my etsy shop is based, got sold by what may be accident or may be malice  
> so right now i am kind of spinning in circles screaming


	18. Consent and Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> discussion with Jim, Sebastian, and James... more talk... a bit of history (from some points of view) and Mycroft waking up again.

“You have GOT to be kidding…” Sebastian was staring at him.

“Oddly enough, Sebie, I don’t think he is–he has a thing about consent issues.” Jim stared at him and finally asked, “Alright, how do we get consent issues when I was on top?”

Bond rubbed his face and tried to think of how to phrase this.  “You know I don’t think Q can really give consent with you, right?”

“…ri-ight…” Jim sort of drawled at him.

“What?” Sebastian frowned.

Bond sighed and took a bite of the food, “Jim conditioned him, thoroughly.  I simply do NOT trust that he can make a decision about Jim that Jim hasn’t influenced.”

“Oh.” Sebastian blinked a lot, “that…” he glanced at Jim, “that could be the case. I don’t think about it much. He was almost dead several times over, and by the time I dealt with him on his feet, it was when you all were together.” He looked wistful, “Good looking fellow: it was hard to tell that when we got him.”

Bond looked calmly at Jim, “did you condition Q about Sebastian?”

“No, that’s why he didn’t recognize him,” Jim answered, “Sebie knows a few of the code keys, of course, and the identifying phrases that would tell Q he works for me…”

“So he could use a code phrase and Q would have to listen to him?”

Sebastian frowned slightly. Jim paused, looking considering. “I suppose? It’s not likely to work, what’s more likely is simply that Q would know Sebastian worked for me, and treat him accordingly, but it wouldn’t be needed, since he already MET Sebastian, and you saw how they dealt with each other…”

“Then to give you an example,” Bond said carefully, “in the not entirely hypothetical case that Mister Moran, here, wanted to see Q on a personal basis…”

“He’s very–” Sebastian said defensively, Bond cut him off.

“I would want to witness the negotiations, to make sure that none of the conditioning was used. Assuming it wasn’t, then Q is quite capable of saying yes or no, and meaning it.” Bond held up a hand before they could say anything.  “If Jim was there, however, Q is going to take direction from Jim.  If Jim thinks it’s a good idea, Q would be very likely to say yes, because of his conditioning…  So he’s not pinned down, he’s apparently sober and he still cannot really give consent.”

Sebastian looked a bit horrified; which Bond took as a good sign. “I never thought of that…”

“Oh God, now it’s both of you!” Jim snorted.

"Ok, so let’s look at a different example–one that has happened to a lot of people.” Bond sat back, “If I was drugged, and it made me sort of drunk, and I lost most of my inhibitions… and then I got picked up in a bar by some likely looking pretty thing… do you understand that I wouldn’t consider that consent?  The person I was in bed with might be attractive to me, and we might not do anything unusual–I might even seem enthusiastic– but I wasn’t in any condition to make that decision.”

Sebastian was getting quieter and paler; Bond wondered what he’d tripped over.  Jim got up and walked over to him.

“Tiger? Will you be okay?”

He nodded slowly, and looked at Bond–his eyes looked haunted– “No, you really wouldn’t be responsible for yourself, even if you were begging for it.”

Bond nodded. “Even if I had some girl tied down in handcuffs, even if I had a good time, it still can’t be said I was really ABLE to make a judgement about things.  Now it might not be the girl’s fault–she might not even know– but it’s not much different in my mind than if SHE was drunk, or drugged, and I had sex with her.  It’s sketchy.”

Jim was leaning into Sebastian. It would have looked casual but Bond could see the minute tremors in the sniper’s otherwise rock steady hands.

“As I already explained to Jim, and Q,” Bond addressed Sebastian and was analyzing as fast as he could, “I do things for work that are non-consenting all the time, whether it’s fun for them or not.  I keep my work and personal life as separate as I can, because otherwise…” he shook his head.

Jim sighed, “So you think that the absolutely wonderful time I had was iffy?”

“Jim… first of all, I don’t KNOW that you had a wonderful time, because you are an insanely good actor.”

 Jim had to concede that.

Sebastian sighed, “Seen him fake it– times when he was actually very unhappy about the situation–no, I could only tell in hindsight. It wasn’t with me,” he added hurriedly. Jim patted Sebastian on the shoulder and nodded.

Bond nodded, “secondly, EVEN if you had a really good time, just like in my example… I don’t know if you were in a condition where you could consent.  You might be, that’s why I’m asking.” He spread his hands on and hoped he’d been clear. “I need to know, if this happens again, whether I need to just tell you what’s going on and wait for you to… sober up? Put your memories back together? Or if it IS alright.”

“Then to answer your first question; yes I had wonderful time, and i think we should do it again–often– but possibly with you in restraints because your elbow is sharp.” Jim sat back with an amused expression, but his eyes were flat.

“As to consent?” he glanced at Sebastian, “I wasn’t trying to placate either of you so you wouldn’t hurt me…” Sebastian relaxed some. “I was confused, which makes me unhappy, and I wanted control back, and that’s how I know how to get it.”

Bond nodded slowly. _Those two needed to talk_. “Mind if I step out for a moment?” he nodded toward the bathroom– Jim looked grateful.  He walked into the bathroom and spent some time trying to figure out how he got involved in this mess, and if it wouldn’t be simpler to go back to just trying to kill people and forgetting this relationship stuff.

*

Jim got Sebastian a dose of light sedative. He hadn’t needed one in a very long time.

“I hadn’t realized just how badly this was hitting you, Sebie.”

“I think it’s just been a lot of stuff piled up.” Sebastian sighed, “John was almost the last straw and now this?”

“I’m not the best person to talk to about consent, Sebastian.”

“You had mine.”

“Did I? I have no clue.” Jim shrugged, “I just didn’t want to see you throw your life away.  In any event, I like the results.”

Sebastian smiled faintly, “You may be a deranged changeling, but I still love you.”

“Love is a ridiculous concept, Sebie.” Jim grinned at him.

“Isn’t it though?” Sebastian got up, “I still say if he got orders to take you down, he’d do it, but I think he’s safe enough for the rest of that twenty-four hours.”

Jim nodded, “Go get some rest.”

He waited a little bit and tapped on the bathroom door.  James came out– he didn’t look too surprised that Sebastian wasn’t there.

“I have no idea what I tripped over, but–”

“It’s his business if he wants to tell you the details, but he was discharged on a medical after he had been captured and held prisoner.” Jim chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Getting dumped back in London wasn’t good for him.  I picked him up and put him back together.”

James nodded, “He’s very loyal.”

“Sebie? His picture is in the dictionary next to that word.” Jim grinned, “Also he’s in love with me, which is pretty horrible since I’m a terrible person.”

James raised an eyebrow at him.

“Do you practice that? Because it’s very expressive.”

James surprised him by laughing, “Yes, actually. I copied it from one of my favorite actors and a good friend.” He grinned, “He’s an unrepentant asshole, but I still like him.”

“Wait, you did? Who?!”

“If you can’t figure it out, I’m not telling,” he smirked. “In any event, we’re both terrible people and for some reason some poor loyal bastards always seem to end up hanging about,” he muttered, “gets them killed too often.”

“So? How do we resolve your consent conundrum?”

“Are you likely to be stable for now?”

“I’m never stable–it’s boring,’ he shrugged. “I suppose this is as good as you get.”

“So if I’m dealing with you when you’ve just come back, or are acting oddly… are you able to consent, or is there something I should wait for?”

Jim had to give him credit for dogged persistence. “Fine, we’ll discuss it!”

Jim busied himself with some tea, trying to figure out where to start, or what to say. “You know it’s not something I normally even think about, right?”

“I know.” James sighed, “You’re avoiding even contemplating the fact that you might be out of control,  or in a weak position, and the few times you do mention it you blow it off or act like it’s a joke.”

Jim flinched, “Why aren’t you in the psych department then?”

“Because I’m too good at killing things, and I hate being analyzed by anyone but me.” He shrugged, “M got me dead to rights, but we’re a lot alike.”

“My whole life has been out of control,” Jim admitted finally, “and out of control means being hurt; so I grab control wherever I can.” James nodded–there was no cloying sympathy in the look, just acknowledgement.  “I’m afraid that other than playing games with safewords in theory, I really don’t have much concept of consent at all; it wasn’t part of my life.”

“Ever?” James asked, “Even before Mycroft?”

“There… wasn’t a lot before Mycroft, James, and what there was…” Jim sighed. “I met Mycroft when I was very young, I moved in with him full time before I was fourteen.  I basically belonged to him.” Jim’s smile sharpened, and he saw James move into a more defensive posture–subtly. “Until I found my way behind the looking glass and back… even then I mostly belonged WITH him, if not TO him… then his brother died, and he decided to join the side of the Angels, and he left me.  I don’t know what he was thinking, to leave me alive.”

*

Mycroft woke up, again. He remembered the not-hospital room, and the restraints.  This time there was a doctor looking at a monitor and adjusting his IV line. _Pakistani– English educated–family man._

“I don’t suppose you would tell me where I am, or what was done to me?”  Mycroft made a best guess as to his native language.

The doctor startled, and answered in the same tongue, “I can only tell you that you are in Mister Moriarty’s possession–”

“Yes, well, that was somewhat obvious.”

“As to your treatment…” he looked thoughtful, “You had a very bad compound break in the leg, it required surgery. I believe that with rest, and following up with physical therapy, you should not have major difficulties.”

“Surgery…” Mycroft stared at him. _Major repairs, complex break, he would have been crippled for life if they hadn’t…_ “Likelihood of my being able to walk?”

“The surgery went well, you WILL be able to walk, but how well?” he made that expressive shrug the region seemed to breed into its people, “Only Allah, and the physical therapists, may determine that.”

“My arm?”

“A simple break, but Mister Moriarty insisted we take care with it, he said you require more use of your arm than your leg.”

 _While true, it was less than reassuring._ “You… assume I will live to use either.”

The Doctor shrugged again, “Death comes to everyone, Mister Holmes, but if Mister Moriarty did not wish you to live to use your limbs, I doubt he would have wasted such effort.”  He finished the adjustment in the IV. “You will likely feel sleepy, I advise you to rest as you can.”

The doctor left.  Mycroft did indeed feel rather sleepy, but wondering what Jim had in mind kept him awake a bit longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to various backstories here, all of which have been published in the series.
> 
> as a reminder, my proof reader has been ill, and life in general has been very high stress, so... i apologize if the grammar and punctuation are a bit off.


	19. A History of Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a discussion of the past, the present, and just possibly the future..  
> References the events in past story arcs and histories

It took a surprisingly long time for people to realize that Mycroft was missing. The most serious patients had been sent to two hospitals, and at first people simply assumed that Mycroft was not properly logged in.  After D.I. Lestrade couldn’t find him, he started demanding traces on the surveillance cameras, which was when they found out that the surveillance in the area looped before ambulances arrived, and that none of the ambulances– even the known ones that had taken the other injured parties in– were on ANY of the surveillance tapes.

According to the cameras, there was an explosion, police response, and then a five second loop until everyone was gone.

Greg tried to ignore the unprofessional levels of terror pooling up in his gut and sent people out to look for non CCTV cameras: bank and store security, cash machines, and so on.

Mycroft had standing orders that his brother was ONLY to be called in as a last resort.  Greg looked around: Anthea was in critical care, Mycroft’s other aide was getting nowhere with the search, _at what point do you declare it a last resort?_ He looked at the empty office, took a deep breath, and called Sherlock.

*

“You… belonged? To Mycroft?” Bond tried to wrap his head around that and mostly failed. “I know you two were lovers, I know from what I’ve seen that it was a VERY bad relationship, but…” He had a moment’s sudden flashback to the carnival in South America, to Jamie and her quiet acceptance of abuse…

Jim smiled that unsettlingly mad smile at him, “What are you thinking about?”

“Jamie, and carnivals.”

“How is she?”

“In a safe house with some good people,” Bond smiled faintly, “I haven’t had a lot of time to visit, but when I did she was looking better.” He looked thoughtfully at Jim, “If you want to explain it, I would appreciate knowing what I’ve gotten in the middle of, but I understand if you don’t.”

Jim sighed, “Lie down, will you? If I’m going to talk about it I want to be lying down with someone I like.”

Bond helped him put the bed more or less back together, and stripped back down. Jim stripped and crawled in next to him, resting his head on Bond’s chest.

“My mother killed herself after trying to kill me and my baby sister…” Jim said it as calmly as you might say the weather was poor that day.  “She said we were changelings, that the faeries had stolen away her real children and left us… I know I am; I don’t think my sister is, but she was just a baby.  The social workers took her away but left me with my da,” he shrugged, “that was hell.”

Bond stroked a hand down Jim’s back, and he moved in closer.

 “I was on scholarships to expensive schools–expensive for us– and being beaten and buggered quite often, and I finally killed one of the little bastards.” Bond wanted to go back and murder some teachers, for letting them get away with it, he could picture Jim: smaller, poor, probably not into sports…

Jim smiled, “It was a lovely murder, no one suspected except Sherlock. He identified it as a murder, but he was just a kid, too, so no one listened to him…”

“Except Mycroft?”

“Except Mycroft.” Jim nodded, “He came up and found me, sent me books, wrote letters. Invited me down to visit him that summer. I lived with him summers until after my da broke my arm, then I moved in with him full time.” He looked up at James, “That’s the scar, from a broken bone, on my arm; from the files he sent to Russia. Mycroft knew all about it of course.  I would have been dead except for Black’s self-defense lessons.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Black.  He worked for the Holmes family, Mycroft had him teach me self-defense and he taught us both explosives…” Jim seemed to lose himself in memories for a bit, eventually James cleared his throat to get him back, “anyway, he was a former Double 0.”

That got James to sit up and take notice, “He was?”

“Mmm-hmm, He died in the assassination of Mycroft’s father, he’s buried in the usual plot for you folks–those that don’t have family plots– I go there often enough. He was the closest thing I ever had to a good father.”

_That explains so much, it explains how he knew to read me, how he knew everything about the Double O program, even if this Black didn’t tell him much, he would have known to LOOK…._

“I lived with Mycroft from then on–after my da broke my arm.  It was… probably emotionally abusive, but it was so much better than home.  We started hunting down the boys that had hurt me–”

“We?”

“Mycroft couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else having had their hands on me.” He shrugged.

“Jealous even then?”

“Oh, honey, you have no idea!” Jim laughed.  “He couldn’t bring himself to touch me, because I was ‘dirty’, and so we killed them all.” Jim smiled until Bond growled a bit and then looked up at him, confused. “I suppose that’s not good…?”

“Yeah, a bit not good.”

Jim snorted, “Now you sound like John and Sherlock.  I wouldn’t think you would have a problem with killing them, I don’t.”

“I don’t have any problem with you killing them. I wouldn’t have a problem with you and Mycroft killing them, if he was doing it because he wanted to help you, or because he was mad someone hurt you… I have a big problem with him insisting they have to die because they touched his property, or that you were dirty.” 

~

“Oh…” Jim stared at him a bit. “I always felt dirty, after.”

“I’ve beaten or raped enough people in my line of work to have some experience here,” James said drily, “You may or may not have done something to come to the rapists attention–in my case usually international intrigue– but if there’s any dirt involved, it’s on the rapist’s side.”

“Someone with your obsession on consent never struck me as a rapist.”

“I told you, I keep personal and professional at a good distance.  If this was business I wouldn’t bother discussing it.  You may recall I was surprised you weren’t going to insist on sex when I woke up that first time? That’s because that’s how this game usually goes.  If you’d run by the usual playbook you would have expected , demanded, or tried to force sex on me, I would have played along–we both might have had a good time– and then I would have leveraged that into getting loose.”

“I use sex as leverage quite a bit,” Jim said drily, “but I never saw a need to force it on anyone.”

James shrugged, “I usually seduce, but it’s still false pretenses: like poor, sweet Galena.  Sometimes I’ve raped people by ignoring their protests or limits, sometimes its overt violence.” James looked at him with those ice blue eyes, “You heard enough stories from Q, and I know he told you the Peru story.”

“Told me? The hotel maid in Peru was the Q version of reading the same bedtime story to a kid every night!”

“She was a spy, she was trying to get out, and I tricked her into keeping quiet, threatened and manipulated her, raped her–repeatedly– and finally brought her home to M: she’s an asset of ours now.”

“From Q’s description she enjoyed it…”

“Jim… Just because someone enjoys it doesn’t mean it’s not rape.”

 _What finally sent me behind the mirror was when I couldn’t get away, and they made me enjoy it._ Pages fluttered open and long buried memories poured down on him like a deck of cards…

~

Jim’s eyes went wide, and blank; he stiffened in Bond’s arms and shook faintly.

“Jim?” Bond moved slightly and Jim closed his eyes and was gone.

Bond slid out of bed, covered Jim with a blanket, and got dressed. He went over to the monitors and turned them on; there were reports, and camera views.  The access was locked, of course.  He found his phone in one of the desk drawers.

“Now what did he say?” Bond muttered, “swipe left twice?” nothing… maybe he meant the other left… he got to a screen that looked exactly like his home screen, but in green. He hit the question mark icon and a screen full of technological gibberish opened up.  He put his thumb up against the screen and muttered darkly about technology.

“You don’t have to prove it’s you, James, your thumb print works…” Q’s amused voice came across the line.

“Q,” Bond couldn’t help but smile, “I may be a bit delayed; some things have gotten complicated.  If I’m not back on time, instead of hitting the panic alarms, call me back first?”

“That’s not how this usually works…”

“I know.” Bond sighed, “It’s complicated, and a lot of its private or need to know.”

“Is Jim alright?”

Bond looked at the body on the bed and lied, “Yes, Sebastian and I finally got him to get some sleep.”

“Did Mycroft…”

“Badly broken leg, simple break of the arm. He had surgery, he’ll survive.” Bond thought about it carefully, “Jim… had to take a lot of time to deal with that, and very kindly let me be present to make sure Mycroft didn’t say anything under anesthetic. Then everyone was dealing with things.  He’s asleep right now, but… that has used up a lot of the agreed on time–and he didn’t have to let me sit in on the surgery. However bad an idea it might be, I might end up talking to him about extending our agreement to make up for it.”

“Oh…” Q sighed, “You’re right, it’s a very bad idea. Are you sure you don’t want me to come there?”

“No, you’re still my backup, Q.  If anything did go wrong I need someone who knows where I am, and isn’t here.”

“Alright, but at the twenty-four hour mark I’ll call.”

“Well, make sure YOU get some sleep and eat something, alright?”

“No guarantees,” Q laughed.

Bond gave him the sign off, and hung up.  He rummaged around a bit and found a rather dog-eared “The Complete Annotated Alice” and started reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Compleat Annotated Alice is a great book, although you can never trust my memory for the exact titles
> 
> all spelling and grammatical errors my own,, my proof reader is still ill.


	20. A terrible, wonderful, idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> catching up... hints and allegations, incidents and accidents....mind palaces

“What do you mean Mycroft has been missing since yesterday?!” Sherlock shouted into the phone. John and Mary both looked over.

Sherlock listened. “Obviously a planned explosion to kidnap him, Lestrade; Moriarty must have him.”

Sherlock stared at the phone, actually took the phone away and stared at it before putting it back to his head. “NO, he isn’t really on our side!  He demanded that cover up in exchange for helping us with something beyond your clearance or intellectual capacity!”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “He was in the office? A week ago?” Sherlock closed his eyes, and opened them again. “Good luck.” He hung up.

John asked quietly, “He was kidnapped after I was returned?”

“After we got to the house, apparently. Mycroft had been in one of the following cars. According to Greg he never made it back: there was an explosion between here and the office.  He was seen to be taken away in an ambulance, but all of the cameras were tampered with.  Everyone else made it to the hospital, not him.”

“All of the cameras?” Mary asked.

“Yes. Apparently none of the ambulances were seen arriving, loading people, or getting to the hospital on any camera.”

“That’s…”

Sherlock sat back, “very nearly the God Code that he claimed to have had.”

John looked up, “or Q. I bet Q could do it.”

Sherlock looked over, “what?”

John pulled his sweater around him more tightly, “They were talking about kidnapping Mycroft, before I got out. The original… The original plan was to kidnap you, of course.” John didn’t look at either of them, but he caught Sherlock’s flinch out of the corner of his eye. “Jim picked me up instead.  They… they apparently have a system?”

“A system? What on earth do you mean?” Mary sounded incredibly puzzled, John couldn’t blame her.

“Me for Sherlock, Sherlock for Mycroft.  They were talking about how difficult it was to get past Mycroft’s security.  Bond suggested leaving us out of it and somehow getting Mycroft directly.”

 “I thought you didn’t remember?” Mary asked.

“I don’t remember GETTING there. I wasn’t drugged during the conversation Bond was having about getting me out, although it gets… scrambled… as it gets closer to the time I got the drug.  Then it’s all a blank, and then Moran gave me the antagonist once we were there and things slowly come back into my memory, but a bit jumbled.”

“What do you remember about what happened when Bond came to get you?” Sherlock asked him intently.

“It was all just a continuation of how… topsy-turvy it all was.    I was brought out of my room for the first time since my escape attempt… Moriarty was talking to him about their ‘system’, and Bond said why not just cut out the middleman…” Mary was staring at John, Sherlock hissed. “Bond called Mycroft a traitor…”

Mary said “What?”  She was frowning, “Wait, who called Mycroft a traitor?”

Sherlock was still replying to john and nodded slowly. “Mycroft did some very…” he changed topics abruptly, “That was the expressed attitude when Mycroft called to ask Bond if he could intervene– that Mycroft was a traitor and they were unlikely to do him any favors. They were more willing to talk to me.” Sherlock looked thoughtfully at John, “Q was the one who offered to ask for your release, Bond didn’t want Moriarty to get more hooks into him–he said MORE and mentioned other things– and that’s when he volunteered to try to get you out…” Sherlock looked off.

“It was all so surreal…” John muttered. “Book reports, ex-boyfriends…”

“Did you say Bond?” Mary had wrinkles between her eyebrows; John reached out and tried to smooth them away.

“It’s alright, Mary.”

Sherlock looked deep in thought, “You think despite Bond trying to keep Q away from him, Q might have helped him kidnap Mycroft?

John sighed, “Apparently Q is… I don’t know… dating? Bond and Moriarty. After Moran brought me to Q’s house, we… were talking­–” John shivered faintly. “Q said he belonged to Moriarty and Bond. He... um... rather specifically was talking about going to bed with both of them.” John dredged the conversation up as best he could. “Said it had a bad effect on your sense of self-preservation to be in bed with both of them.”

Mary murmured, “I can’t even imagine it– it sounds positively lethal.”

“What happened to Bond?” Sherlock asked abruptly, “He wasn’t at Q’s flat when I picked you up.”

“Apparently the price to get me out was... uh… some kind of sexual payback.  That was the price to get me turned loose…” John flinched, “Since he wasn’t going to be having me anymore. It...um… sounded like it involved something painful.”

“Isn’t this Q person a man?” Mary asked slowly.

“Yes?” Sherlock looked at her for the first time in a while and froze.

“Yes, Bond and Q were apparently in some kind of relationship before Q was captured by Jim, but–”

“and Q, Jim Moriarty, and James Bond… were all in bed… together?” Mary asked sounding incredulous.

“That’s what they said, certainly.” John frowned. “Why?”

“And James Bond… is doing ­_what_ with Moriarty?”

“Apparently the price to get me out was…” John sighed, “Bond said he didn’t ‘sub worth a damn’, and apparently that’s what Jim wanted in exchange for letting me go, so–”

Mary made a sort of strangled noise, John wasn’t sure whether she was about to laugh or scream–he could sympathize.

“I think we need a LOT more tea, and… and I’ll go make something.” Mary walked out of the room, still looking stunned.

“Like I said, surreal: the whole thing was surreal.” John nodded and looked over at Sherlock- he was staring after Mary with the oddest expression.

*

Jim slowly uncovered his head and looked at the cards scattered around him. He picked up a card from the floor, it tried to bite him.  It was the eight of hearts… _There had been little hearts on the ceiling in one of the rooms_ … He’d spent so many hours staring up at a ceiling, or the face of one of his  trainers, or down at a bed, or a floor, trying to remember what it was like to be anywhere else.

He picked up the Ace of Spades, it was an old, old friend– there was always a way out. _Pain so awful he begged; pleasure so terrible that he found the one way out that was left to him._

“Just because someone enjoys it, doesn’t mean it’s not rape.”

At some level he’d known that, but he’d never heard it stated so plainly. Sebastian had been addicted, he begged for anything they would give him when they were done with him, but that didn’t mean it was his idea… he wasn’t able to consent by the time he was saying “Yes, do whatever you want.”

He picked up the three of spades and tried to think _.  I… I was being raped, even … even when I enjoyed it._

Jim turned that idea slowly over in his mind. “Capable of consenting” was such a… slippery concept. He’d… he’d said no to Mycroft, hadn’t he?  That first time, when the memories and the panic overwhelmed him… and he’d been sent to The Place to learn never to say no… to always say yes… to please, and to do whatever they wanted…

He’d turned that into a weapon.

 

Card after card, memory after memory, he put the deck back in order and tried to look at things again. In the end he’d used all their lessons against them: sex, the Method of Loci, secrecy, family, math, and even Black and the explosives… eventually he’d found his way back as the Queen, not the Pawn.

But…

Consent.  He had said “yes” a thousand times, and meant it a handful.  He shuffled the cards in his hands and looked down at the chessboard. His temporarily borrowed Knight was holding a phone, the White King was contained, the White Queen and Knight in play, but constrained.  His Bishop still countered the other pieces, and was still unseen… his Rook…

He put the deck down beside the chessboard and pillowed his head on his arms. _Had I learned their lessons too well? I hadn’t thought so…_

~

“Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined in Memory's mystic band, like pilgrim's wither'd wreath of flowers pluck'd in a far-off land.” 

Jim had just concluded the poem when James spoke up, “You weren’t gone that long this time, your computer has been chiming but I don’t have any way to check it, and I made a phone call while you were out.”

He looked up and… James was reading “The Compleat Annotated Alice”, and he was wearing adorable reading glasses and looked like a remarkably fit professor.

“Are you reading my Alice book?”

“Yes, is that a problem?”

“No… You have reading glasses?”

“…Yes? I am getting on in years, much as it pains me to admit it.”

“You look adorable.”

“I have no idea whether to be annoyed or flattered.”

“Flattered.” Jim remembered the image of the Knight holding a phone, _and he just said he made a call_ … “How could you make a call? This level is shielded…”

“I called Q, mostly because I had no idea how long you might be out for–and before you ask, no, I just told him Sebastian and I managed to convince you to get some sleep.”

Jim really wanted to be upset about it, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “How... How is Q?”

James frowned and put down the book, “he’s fine. What’s wrong?”

“I… think you may be right.” It felt like swallowing razors to say it, but he did.

James came over and sat down on the bed, “I believe the phrase is ‘I usually am’, but what in particular.”

“I went away because I remembered some things, and I had to think about that.” He sighed, “and my idiot subconscious has apparently become firmly convinced that you’re safe, so...”

“Your subconscious is not so much idiotic as it is a high stakes gambler, but it’s based on solid data, even if risky.”

“Mmmm, I’ve heard about your gambling.” Jim pulled him down into the bed and curled up around him. “You’re warm.”

James put an arm around him, “So what am I right about?”

“You MAY be right, I don’t know.  It is rather a novel concept to me.” Jim took a deep breath and his mind more than his nose filled in the scents: guns, knives, wool sweaters and books– James was Scotland all over–deep green, ice blue, and jagged rocks. “I have no idea whether I have ever been able to consent, by your standards. I could say no to you, though, if I wanted to, and mean it– does that make a difference?”

“If you CAN say no, and choose to say yes, then that’s a choice.” James nodded. “If you were too  afraid, or drugged, or something, to say ‘No’ and mean it, then saying ‘Yes’ doesn’t mean much, so yes, that makes a difference.”

“I wasn’t certain that Q could say no to me, but… you heard him, he did.”

“Yes, he did, it made me feel a lot better.”

“I didn’t condition him to want sex with me, you know.”

“I know. You tripped over the BDSM issues.  You DID condition him with me, which makes his consent to have sex with me rather awkward.”

Jim sighed “I know, but truly he already wanted you badly.”

“Which is why I gave in, I suppose.” James smirked, “that and he blushes adorably and yells at me.”

“Yelling at you gets you turned on?”

“No.” James shook his head, “but I have what can probably best be described as a competency kink, and anyone capable of ripping me up one side and down the other for breaking his equipment and then turning around and getting me out of a situation… He’s smart, and competent, and he always seemed like he could say ‘No’ very firmly and probably in several languages if he felt like it.  A lot of the people at MI6 are either awed by or afraid of the Double Os: he’s not.”

“Ah, he can appreciate you, he knows what you do, and he can stand up to you if he wants to.”

James nodded, “Security being what it is, I can either date a civilian– and lie through my teeth about my whole life– or go out with someone in the business, and that rarely works.”

“I honesty have no idea if I could say ‘no’ or ‘yes’ to Mycroft and have it mean anything. My life with him was so tangled.”

“Then I suggest you don’t put yourself in a position where it will matter.” James looked at him very thoughtfully, “You know he’s bad for you, and I know I’ve only heard part of the story and it’s already worse than I thought.  You and I both use sex as a tool, but if you can’t trust your own judgment around Mycroft, then by no means get into bed with him.”

“Unless he’s changed drastically he’s terrible in bed anyway. I taught him everything I could but he’s too self-absorbed and far too desperate about maintaining control.” Jim grinned wickedly, “Although it was great fun watching him come apart.”

“Was it?”

“Oh yes, watching the little cracks appear in the perfect façade… that’s always heavenly.  Doing it to Mycroft was where I got the taste for it.”

James got the most delightfully wicked smirk.

“Then I think I have an idea…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of the cards mean something. If it helps, convert the cards to tarot and look up the meanings.  
> the poem is by Lewis Carrol and was published in one of the Alice books


	21. pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nowhere to look but inside  
> Where we all respond to  
> Pressure

M read the report, stone faced as always. “Thank you that will be all.”

“But ma’am the–” she glared at him and he scurried out.

She stood looking at nothing for a long while before she made a decision.  She called Q in to her office and let her mind drift back to when he’d first come to work for her, and before that to Boothroyd’s insistence that he be found, and that he would be Q someday.

He was right.

Boothroyd was always right –terrifying, sometimes insane, apparently able to predict the future, brilliant, lethal…but always right.

She waited. 

Shortly afterwards, Q entered apologizing, “I’m terribly sorry, Ma’am, I was in the middle of–”

“What have I told you, Alan?” she interrupted him and gave him the glare that reduced hardened Double Os–except Bond, of course– to cowering.

He ducked his head and blushed, “Yes, Ma’am, reporting as requested.”

“Are we secure?”

“Yes ma’am, you’re giving me a very tedious lecture, and the reception is terrible.”

She nodded crisply, “Good.  Who has Mycroft Holmes?”

He hesitated briefly, “Jim–Jim Moriarty, Ma’am.”

“And where is Bond?”

“Also with Jim, Ma’am.  Part of the deal to get John–Doctor Watson– retrieved.”

She sighed, “In your personal opinion, how close are those two?”

“Errr…” he looked remarkably cornered. “Rather?” after a pause he continued, “I think the combination is rather explosive without me there to defuse it, but I did speak to Bond just recently and things seem to be going better than I expected.”

“What did Bond have to say?”

“I’m acting as a safeguard, ma’am.  I know where he is, and if I don’t get regular status reports, and he isn’t back at a specific time, I can reveal that. Jim was there when this was arranged, so…”

She waved her hand at him, “That’s fine, I’m pleased he’s taking some kind of precautions, but what did Bond have to say about Mycroft, anything?”

“Oh! Umm… Well, he was injured in the explosion.  His leg was badly broken, his arm broken but not as badly, and he had surgery. Bond said it went well and he was permitted to observe for security reasons.” Q looked down, “in case he talked under anesthetic, like I do.”

She snorted, “Unlikely. Reactions to anesthesia tend to run in families.” She looked thoughtful, “Although I understand Mister Moriarty uses custom drugs, so his reaction could not be predicted, and Bond wouldn’t know about his family in any case.” She nodded.

“Is that all?”

“No. As I suspected someone is blackmailing major political players in England.  Now Mycroft had gone missing, and it became imperative to know who had him, if his information is secure, and what he knew about the situation. You have just confirmed who has him and that for the moment his information is secure.  I still need to know what information he has on the blackmail situation.”

“Wasn’t there an incident with Sherlock Holmes involving blackmail?”

“Yes.” She nodded, “Sherlock Holmes murdered Magnussen, who was blackmailing several people including an MP. It was of course covered up, but as part of the deal Sherlock was being sent on a near suicide mission.”

“I didn’t know any of this? Should I have?”

“You WOULD have, I was working with Mycroft to send one of our agents after his brother and try to ensure his survival–oddly enough it might have been Bond– however that was when Jim Moriarty chose to reappear.” She shrugged faintly, “since he otherwise stayed extremely quiet we were able to pass it off as a hackers prank.”

“I couldn’t trace it.” Q frowned and then brightened up suddenly, “OH! I can ask him!”

M rubbed her forehead– _of course that’s the first thing he thinks of, of course it is_.– she took a deep breath, “I. need. To. Talk. To. Bond.”

“He’s…ummm… busy.”

“We need to find out what Mycroft knows about the blackmail situation.”

“I can try to reach him, or Jim? It will be easier when the time’s up…”

“Try.” She sighed.  As Q got up to leave she continued, “and Alan?”

“It’s always bad when you use my name,” he sighed.

“It will be very bad when I use your GIVEN name, Q.” she raised an eyebrow at him in the exact same fashion Bond did. He ducked his head again. “Next time you reroute the traffic signals and interfere with the CCTV cameras, at least notify me?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

*

Mycroft was awake again, wondering when Jim would make his appearance, what had him so busy that he’d been left alone for so long, whether it was part of a plan to make him worry himself into an anxiety attack– _probably_ –when the screen in front of his bed lit up.  Jim’s laughing face filled the screen.

“Mycroft!  I am so glad you’re awake, I trust my drugs have been keeping you comfortable?”  Jim sat back against a very broad scarred chest and did something with a control. The view zoomed out.

James Bond was laying spread eagled on a large dark bed, nude, restrained – Mycroft felt fat and lumpy. Bond had drops of blood in various places, mostly smeared, that just served to accentuate his scars. _Aroused, frustrated – delayed gratification of course, Jim’s favorite_ – Bond looked every single inch like the physical machine that a Double O was supposed to be.  He wasn’t gagged and Jim had been biting his lip.  Jim had blood on his mouth– Mycroft could almost taste it.  He looked away.

“You know it never once occurred to me that you might ask James, or Q, to get John back?” Jim lay back against Bond’s chest, Mycroft could hear enough without watching. “Never, not once!  It was a brilliant move.”

“Which didn’t work.” Mycroft sighed.

~

 _Not that brilliant then, Eh old man?_ Younger Mycroft leaned against a wall.

_You’re dead. Dead and buried._

_~_

“Well, I did return him…” Mycroft glanced at the screen to see Jim lying back on the naked Bond, playing idly with him. Bond looked like murdering Jim was just barely in first place, with screwing him a close second.

“Traded him in for a Double-O?” Mycroft kept his voice level with effort.

“James sold himself to me for a day, in exchange.” Jim smirked.

Mycroft couldn’t help it, he blurted out, “THAT’s a damn idiotic thing to do!”

Bond growled, sounding considerably more coherent than Mycroft would have credited, “Yes, it was.”

Jim giggled. Mycroft closed his eyes and counted to ten.

~

 _Jealousy, Sentiment, a chemical weakness… you know all about that don’t you_. Untouchable Mycroft sighed at him from his desk.

The Jim in his mind palace vanished into the Jim on the screen.

~

“Were you planning on returning him? Or is he a new part of your operation.” _If he only had him for a day, he could report on where they were._

“Oh My Own, don’t be cross.  If you hadn’t gotten jealous of James, I never would have gotten you back: we both owe him.”

“I’m not “your own” Jim. I haven’t been for years.”

~

Jim stretched back onto Bond’s chest and looked up at Bond upside down. “Mycroft thinks you might rescue him, James, darling.”

Bond laughed.  “Right now? If it got you to get me off I might at least consider it, you bastard.”

“Payback is a bitch, James.” Jim smiled up at him, and rolled over pressing himself full length on top of James. Bond could feel their cocks brushing and tried to get some friction. _Nothing._ Bond gritted his teeth. _God help me I agreed to this–suggested part of it._

Jim pulled, DRAGGED himself up Bond’s length and kissed him, softly, deeply. Bond bit him. Jim just smiled into the kiss.

“I wonder how long I can keep you like this? Hanging on the edge...” he whispered quietly, “the first time was only a short while, and you were so beautifully responsive…”

 “I’d KILL you.” Bond growled. _Right after I fuck your brains out._

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d try to hold me down and fuck me until you calm down; THEN you’d try to kill me– maybe.” _Damn._

“Must you?”  Mycroft’s exceedingly proper voice came from the monitor. Bond had almost forgotten him.

Jim rolled back to his side and went back to PETTING at him. Bond banged his head into the pillows.

~

Mycroft cursed himself for saying it and giving away just how much this was getting to him.

“He’s in for hours of pure frustration, Mycroft; do you know what that DOES to a person? Oh, how silly of me, of course you do, what with your hands secured, and the video running,” Jim smiled “Given how much you enjoy your CCTV I bet you’ve developed quite the taste for watching, haven’t you?”

 _Yes, damn it! Especially since finding anyone secure enough, intelligent enough, and…_ Mycroft looked at Jim and remembered his old dreams, and how much he’d shaped Jim to be exactly this. 

“As to the rest, My Own… He’s not going to rescue you, he suggested it in fact:  Cut out the middle man and pick you up directly.  After a moment’s thought I realized that it would work.”

 _He suggested it?  Bond?!_  “Who’s the traitor now?” Mycroft growled.

Much to his shock, Bond just laughed, “I WARNED you, Mycroft.  I don’t care HOW you stop being a threat to the country, as long as you do.  Admittedly I was going to just shoot you, but as long as you don’t fall into enemy hands?” 

Mycroft realized in horror that he HAD said that.  He’d anticipated a lethal response from a Double-O, not… this.  That meant M would likely also not look very hard for him, as long as she knew he was… secured.

Jim leaned over and played that expert tongue over Bond, and then  took him down his throat–Mycroft’s suppressed memories of exactly what that felt like came up, and he bit his lip to silence himself.  He was already getting hard despite his best efforts. Memories of Jim patiently laving him with his tongue until he couldn’t stand any more, then taking Jim by the hair and forcing him to finish– Jim’s throat contracting around him… Mycroft couldn’t suppress the moan.

Jim pulled back from Bond, and Mycroft heard him gasp desperately– watched his hands flex uselessly in the restraints. He was keeping him just short of orgasm and probably had for a while. H _e was still coherent enough to talk_? Mycroft was impressed despite himself.  Jim took just the tip of him into his mouth and did something–Mycroft saw Bond’s mind white-out as he arched up almost off the bed despite the restraints.

Jim lazily moved up and started kissing and licking Bond’s nipple, while he stroked him with his hand–Mycroft could all but feel  Jim’s small cool hands on his own body, the lazy rhythm as he would bring Mycroft almost to completion and  then back down, his hypnotic recitations of poetry, or mathematics, while he did so…

“My darling, deadly, beast– James– doesn’t mind if I keep you, as long as none of your secrets go to enemies of Britain,” Jim spoke loudly enough to carry over Bond’s increasingly feral growling moans.

Mycroft was already breathing too hard, too fast, gritting his teeth. _I want him back. I want to kill Bond and I want him back and I never should have let him go, never…_

“So make yourself comfortable, Iceman darling, I plan on turning up the heat and pressure: I always did love watching you melt… or shatter…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end of this arc, but by no means the end of the story.  
> To Be Continued


End file.
